Addict
by mr. eames
Summary: Craig was addicted to a lot of things. Overuse of non-verbal swearing, cigarettes and even lying. But he really only needed one thing, even if he didn't realize it. He didn't need anything else but him. Craig/Tweek, multiple side pairings. Complete.
1. If You Want To Have A Good Time

**Addict **

**A/N**: I don't know what I'm doing. Jesus Christ. Honestly, I have so many fics going on right now and I should be working on my novel, but here you go. A Creek fic I needed to write. It's from Craig's POV, because he has seriously been begging me to write as him for a while. Ironically enough, I wrote this while being hyped up on coffee. By the way, I'm really trying to make this not just another SP high school fic, so have faith in me; it should get better as it goes along…  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings**: Swearing and _lots_ of it, eventual slash. Honestly, if you don't like slash, don't read this, neither one of us benefits.

**Pairings**: Craig/Tweek, a million and one side pairings that even _I'm _not sure about yet. Probably some Style, Benny, maybe even some Frenchy Jew goodness, if you know what I mean.

**Chapter One**: If You Want To Have A Good Time

I lie to myself a lot. I lie to other people a lot. It calms my nerves. If you took all the lies I've ever told and rolled them up in cigarette paper, that would be a damn good smoke. It relaxes me, calms me down, and keeps me in balance. Sort of like flipping people off. That's died down, ever since middle school. I still do it, way more than I should, but most of the time I just lie instead.

I don't know if it's the rush it gives me or what. I love the feeling of sitting there, watching someone's eyes, deciding whether to believe me or not, and then watching them slowly nod, accepting the lie and keeping it in their memory. I don't just lie about big things to get noticed though, oh no. I lie about everything and anything. I tell people I just smoked two cigarettes when I only smoked one. I tell them I slept for eight hours when I only slept for six. The sick part, the really twisted part is, I love it.

Even little things like that, cigarettes and sleeping, lying about them is so fun. I get high off of it, I swear. When someone believes me, it's the best feeling in the world. My favorite thing to lie about, I would have to say, it my other compulsive habit. When I give people the finger and they get angry at me, I pretend like nothing happened. I act innocent, I smile at them, I have it down to an art.

Back in fourth grade I used to just flat-out deny it. Like that was going to convince people of something. No, now I know how to convince people that I didn't do something they just saw me do seconds ago. There are only a few people who don't fall for it. The first one is Clyde Donovan. Or Harris. It depends on if his parents are getting along that week. I have to imagine it's exciting to wake up every morning to find out if your last name has changed or not.

Clyde just doesn't listen to me anymore when I tell him a story about something. It's amusing, or at least it was for the first few months.

"My dad took us camping last weekend," I told him once while we were watching Red Racer. I'm still hopelessly addicted to the reruns, and Clyde watches them with me, though reluctantly. He barely looked away from the screen, just got away with a quiet 'hmm?' without so much as a glance at me. "We saw some bears." There's another noise of questioning, which I took as incentive to continue. "Yeah," I had continued, getting more excited, "yeah, they were like _huge _fuckin' bears, almost like, like, aliens or something."

"Dude, we spent the night at Token's last weekend," Clyde had replied, eyes still on the television. "Shut up."

When Clyde says 'we' he means all four of us. Me and him, of course, along with Token Black and Tweek Tweak. From time to time we do stuff like that, spend a weekend together. Usually at Token's house because that bastard's house is bigger than the rest of our houses put together. I don't know what his parents do for a living but I've suggested to my dad before that he finds out and gets a degree in it.

Token humors me. He listens to me and sarcastically replies to everything I say, breaks it down and finds all the flaws. It's like what he does for everything else in life. For Token there always has to be an explanation. Even if the explanation is as simple as 'bullshit' it's good for him. He isn't Kyle Broflovski; he doesn't have to make some speech about what's going on, he just has to figure it out so it makes sense to him. He's even figured out my compulsive lying.

"Attention," he had said one day while we were at Blockbuster, looking for movies to rent and never return.

"What?" I replied, looking up from a particularly gory movie I had been wanting to see and never got a chance to, mainly because 'we' as a group don't watch horror movies in order to maintain the sanity of our twitchy, blond member.

"Attention," he repeated, taking the DVD from me and looking at the case. "You lie for attention. I don't know where you aren't getting it. At home or something. God knows you get enough at school from, well, girls and guys alike. Maybe you just like having people around you. Or maybe you want people to listen, but that's why you do it. Attention." He handed the movie back to me. "Oh, and Tweek already picked out the movie for this week." We exchanged exasperated looks.

I don't have a problem with Tweek, I really don't. In fact, I consider us best friends. I'm the only one that's able to calm him down, really, and he's a great guy. But he has horrible taste in movies. He always picks something generic and sappy. A chick flick every goddamn time. Always something with a storyline that goes something like: they meet, they fall in love, they lose each other, they find each other, and then they're happy.

Tweek likes those movies because they give him nothing to be paranoid about. In movies like that the world is perfect and the nice guy gets the pretty girl, they always both love each other and, through everything, they end up together. Tweek likes lies like that, little lies that everything is going to be okay. Tweek believes me when I lie about things like that. The funny thing about Tweek is, I think he believes lies more than he believes the truth. I mean, I tell him that we're best friends a lot, which is true to a point.

He doesn't believe me.

I tell him Godzilla has been spotted in Denver.

He believes me.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this as I trudge through the snow to school. I should be thinking about what I'm going to tell people. My power went out and as a result my alarm didn't go off and I missed the bus. Simple enough, right? No. No, something much more interesting needs to have happened to me. I could just tell Tweek that some gnomes stole all my underwear and I had to search everywhere for a new pair.

But only Tweek would believe that. I don't just lie to Tweek. I lie to everyone. In fact, I think I lie to Tweek the least. Just because, Jesus, he'll believe anything. I hardly even have to try. I can calm him down, I always can, but it's just not worth the effort sometimes. In a way I kind of like that, I think to myself, biting my lip, as I find myself nearing the high school, no story in mind. I kind of like being the only one who can have that power over him…

The hallways are empty except for a few stray people. I see Stan Marsh shoving his backpack into his locker. My locker is on the other side of the hallway from his, and I suppress laughter as I hear him muttering expletives under his breath, as I spin the combination lock between my fingers. Honestly, I'm surprised at how much hasn't changed since elementary school.

Ninth grade was a shock, I think. In middle school we all started to drift apart. I think there was a period of time where Stan and Kyle didn't hang out. I know I changed a lot, started smoking with the foreign kids, and started lying profusely. Then high school happened. Our school, Park High, is a mixture of kids from South and North Park. The North Park kids are substantially different from us all. They're all rich, like, Token rich, only with snobby attitudes.

I remember some British shit with blond hair said something about Butters Stotch being gay, and that was it, I think. Everyone, all the guys from Mr. Garrison's old class, just sort of stood up for him. Hell, I think Eric Cartman even threw in an 'Ay!' at some point. It's funny how _Butters _of all people was the one to bring up back together. I mean, in fourth grade I didn't give a fuck about Butters Stotch, but in ninth grade, Global History, on the first day of school?

I was flipping off some kid named Gregory Thorne and finding myself, along with seven others sitting in front of the principal's office. We all were just pissed off. No one was talking. And then Clyde started crying, and Token made some joke about it, and we were all laughing nervously. Cartman joked about it in a mean way, I flipped him off, Kyle yelled at him, Stan calmed him down, Kenny said something perverted, Tweek freaked out and dropped his thermos of coffee.

Everything was back to normal.

Now we're in eleventh grade, the weirdest group of friends possible. It's sort of like elementary school again. There's me, Tweek, Clyde and Token and then there's Kyle, Stan, Cartman and Kenny. We're one big group of assholes, insulting each other all the time, fighting all the time and laughing all the time. I won't lie about one thing, I like it. All of us, our group. It's really nice, in a weird, twisted, South Park sort of way.

I snort to myself as I grab my Psychology book out of my locker and turn around to find Stan. We have the class together. He grins, I grin, and we inaudibly agree to walk there together.

"Why are you late?" I ask, pulling on the side of my hat so it just barely covers my long, black hair. Stan and I, our hair kind of matches. We don't talk about it, it's like a contest. Who can go the longest without cutting their hair? Stan will probably lose, his mom will yell at him to cut it in a month or two when it starts reaching his shoulders, but for now we're content with the contest we have going on.

"My power went out," Stan says. Shit, I remember, Stan lives a block away from me. "I had to walk here, since my parents are at work and all."

"Oh, me too," I say, frantically searching my mind for a story until…Ah! "Yeah, my power went out too, but I think I know why."

"Really?" Stan asks, his eyebrows disappearing into his bangs. He nearly trips as we make our way upstairs. No point in hurrying when we're already late. "Dude, like, the entire block's power was out, or at least it seemed like it. No one's lights were on while I was walking. Not even at Cartman's place, although I'm sure the fat fuck got a ride from his mom." We both roll our eyes.

"I bet it was out on the whole block," I say darkly. Stan is so easy to lie to. He's so gullible if you manage to sound confident in what you say, like I do; he looks at me, almost worried. "The power lines by my house, it looked like _something _ripped them down. I could tell it wasn't the wind, you know. It was like something did it deliberately." I finish my little lie with a small nod, and then bite my lip, looking at Stan's face.

For a minute he looks disbelieving and we've made it to Psychology class. "Dude," he says, right before he opens the door, "that's so _sick_. Wait 'til I tell Kyle." We enter the classroom. It's the middle of a lecture. Our teacher berates us for being late, but we tell her the power was out and she softens her look. I sit down in my usual seat next to Token and watch as Stan whispers to Kyle and the Jew's eyes widen.

Smiling to myself dreamily I lean forward and don't listen to the lecture, just soak up the euphoric feeling of someone believing me.

* * *

During lunch I figure it's as good a time as ever to get a few free cigarettes. Out back there are a few groups of people who smoke, every day, at the same time. The Goth Kids are muttering to themselves about pain and non-conformity and I don't want to get dragged into that shit, so I settle for the Foreign Kids. One of them is Gregory and, though he never smokes, he's always with the group.

So is Pip, that _other _stupid British kid from elementary school. He kind of disappeared after a while in elementary school. I think people just got sick of him. He wasn't exactly a crowd pleaser. He's currently being pinned against the wall by the Son of Satan, Damien, who has a fistful of the kid's hair in one hand as he kisses him and a cigarette in the other.

Christophe DeLorne rounds out their little foreign group. Hell is a foreign place, isn't it? I suppose if there was Hell on Earth it would be in France. I mean, if it produces kids like Christophe, something is definitely off. He's talking about how God is a faggot or something right now while Gregory just stares off into space, barely listening. He takes notice as I approach them though. Damien even stops playing with his boytoy when he hears my voice.

"'Tophe," I say, my voice sickeningly sweet, dragging out the nickname I know the French boy detests.

I like the look he gets in his eyes, when he turns around growling, ready to beat the shit out of whoever cut his heritage in half and realizes it's me. It's this accepting look, one he rarely gives out to anyone. "What iz et now, Nommel?" he asks, his accent heavy, calling me by my last name as usual. I smile at him. We both know what I want. "Three will be enough, oui? Zat iz enough to keep you away from me for ze rest of the day, is it not?"

"More than enough, darling," I say with a gratuitous wink, grabbing the cigarettes he holds out to me, our fingers brushing, causing him to fluster slightly.

I walk away, content with myself, hearing Gregory ask, as he always does: "Why do you put up with that little wanker?" The truth is, I don't know why he does either. I take three cigarettes from him almost every day, I never pay him back. I think I know why, I think it has to do with him blushing when I touch him, but I don't want to admit it to myself, so I don't. I'm just happy to pocket the cigarettes as I enter the school again and make my way into the lunchroom.

There's a seat open for me, as always, in-between Tweek and Clyde and across from Stan. Seating arrangements are the same every single day. Token, Clyde, me and Tweek, across from Cartman, Kenny, Stan and Kyle. It works out well. It never changes. Sometimes someone stops by to talk, disrupts things, Wendy when she and Stan aren't having bitch fits at one another, Butters when he has some interesting news, Christophe if he wants to blush a little more. Every day, in and out, same thing.

"Hey, dude, haven't seen you all day," I say to Tweek, who's twitching next to me. Tweek doesn't sit, he twitches. He never stops moving. He looks up at me with golden eyes. His hair is so messy; I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from running a hand through it and fixing it. He has these dark circles around his eyes, because he rarely, if ever, gets sleep. It's why he has that thermos of coffee clutched in his shaking hands.

"Ngh," he answers, his head cocking to the side, "well we don't have any classes together before lunch, so – so, of course you don't see me. Was I supposed to meet you?" Suddenly his eyes widen, even wider than before, at least, and grow brighter if that's even possible. "Oh, God, I was…I was supposed to meet you, wasn't I? Jesus Christ, how did I forget?!" Stan and Kyle, across from us, are both looking at me, faces amused.

I could lie to him. Tell him, yeah, he was supposed to meet me after French class, he owes me, let's say, five dollars. He would believe me. He would freak out. I know he would, which is why I don't lie. "Nah, Tweek," I say, smiling, "I just wish I saw you more, y'know?" I give into the urge, slightly, and let my hand run through his golden hair, fixing it as much as I can without anyone looking at me funny.

"Did you finish the French conjugation?" Kyle asks, a small smile on his face.

"Yeah," I tell him, even though I have two words done, "but you're not getting it."

"I bet that stupid French fag helped you with it anyway," Cartman barks from the other side of the table. I glare at him and open my mouth, ready to shoot something back, but I have nothing. Christophe did help me, actually, with the two words, and I really have no way to defend the truth and I just give him the middle finger, because I have nothing better to retaliate with. "I bet he keeps you up all night, doesn't he Craigy boy? I bet he screams your name."

"Uh, Cartman," Token says, raising an eyebrow, "no offence, but if you're thinking about what Christophe screams, that kind of makes _you _the fag, doesn't it?" And there goes the fatass, yelling about how he's not gay in the least. Stan shoots back that even if he was, none of us would give him so much as a pity fuck, except maybe Kenny. The blond boy with the orange parka makes retching noises at the thought. All is right again.

"You want to come over today?" I ask Tweek. My hand is in my pocket, twirling one of the cigarettes between my fingers. My hands will smell like nicotine after, but I don't really care. I like the smell. Everything I own smells like cigarettes. It's just another addiction, something I like to have around me all the time. I create my lies, I flip people off without thinking, and I get cigarettes from the French boy. My day is almost perfect.

"Y-yeah, sure, as long as your parents don't mind," the coffee-addict replies, his slender fingers wrapping around the thermos tightly as his eyes widen again and he shudders violently. "They like me right? I mean oh God, if they didn't, what if they just lock me out of the house? And then…Jesus, the mountain lions will find me and rip me to shreads! Ack!" His voice has risen a few octaves and a few people are staring.

I lightly pry his fingers from the thermos and take his hands into my own. He's still shaking, but it's less violent now. He looks at me and I smile. "Tweeky," I say, softly, "my parents think you're fucked up, but they think I am too. So you're practically part of the family, got it?" He nods and I grin, letting go of his hands and ruffling his hair a bit. God, I love his hair. Everyone at the table is returning to their conversations. Stan gives a look, a small smile, looking at me like he _knows _something no one else does. Like he knew a secret.

I flip him off.

* * *

I find it funny how even though Stan is the one who obviously thinks he knows something, Kyle is the one to talk to me. How very like them. They're like one person. Kyle has a temper, he says what's on his mind, and he's self-effacing all at the same time. He knows he's smarter than you, but he's modest about it. Stan has a temper too, but he just keeps quiet about it. If he thinks he's better than you, he tells you. Stan is very typical, Kyle is very atypical. That must be why they're best friends.

Kyle is playing with his glasses while he talks. We're in Shakespeare together. Why I'm in the class, I don't know. Everyone else took Creative Writing or Media Literacy, some blow off class that requires almost no effort, and instead Kyle and I decide to exhaust ourselves with this shit? It makes no sense, but nothing really does. Kyle doesn't wear glasses all the time, he just needs them to help with reading, and we're not exactly getting anywhere on Othello, even though we're supposed to be halfway through the first act by now.

"Dude, just fucking spit it out," I say, chewing on the eraser of my pencil. It's old and disgusting, because I do this all the time, but I love it. "Seriously, it's kind of freaky that you're thinking this much. Usually you just, like, say shit. So, you know, say what you have to Broflovski, and we can get on with this thing." I'm absentmindedly turning the pages of the work we're supposed to be reading.

"What's up with you and Tweek?" he asks, innocently. I look up and glare at him. Kyle Broflovski is so far from innocent it's not even funny. I don't even know how long I've known him. But he isn't innocent in the least. I don't believe that tone of voice for a second. "What I mean, Craig," he says, leaning in a bit closer, so no one can hear what he says next, "is that I see how you look at him. Stan and I both do, so don't pretend like there's nothing going on."

I'm kind of shocked. I thought he was going to say something about how I ran my fingers through the twitchy boy's hair or how I'm the only one who can calm him down. Instead it's how I _look _at him. I just laugh and Kyle backs away, narrowing his eyes. "What the fuck?" I say, although it's really not a question, it's just a statement. "Look, I see how you and Stan look at each other too." I don't, but his eyes widen, and I know I've hit a nerve. "Tweek and I, we aren't like you two." His face turns red. Gold mine. "Maybe you want another couple of queers around, but sorry, it's not happening."

"Stan and I aren't – " he begins to say, defiantly, his face bright red from, what? Anger? Embarrassment? I don't know which it is, but I'm happy my lie caused it. I haven't seen anything between the two of them. Now I do, now I'm figuring there's something more between them than I want to know about. Oh, the things I can make up about them. "I, dude," Kyle says, quietly. I look at him, surprised, his green eyes are pleading with mine. "Can you not tell…" He's struggling with this, looking away now, he drops his pencil.

"Not tell who?" I hiss excitedly. I'm gripping the edge of my desk tightly. I love this feeling. It's a rush of adrenaline. Who am I not supposed to tell? Stan? Oh God, maybe Stan _doesn't _know. That would be the best thing ever. My mind is racing with thoughts about how to get this out. Maybe I can say someone found a love note the Jew wrote for his best friend. No, shit man, that's weak, I can come up with something better than that.

"Christophe," he finally manages. My thoughts stop. _Christophe? _What in the hell does that French fag have to do with anything? Kyle puts his glasses on, shakily picks up the book and turns pages, even though I can tell he's not really paying attention to what he's doing. He's somewhere else right now. Worrying about Christophe, of all people, finding out that he's, what, got something for his best friend? "What page are we on?"

"I don't know, one-fucking-million," I sputter out, my voice a bit too loud. Wendy Testaburger glares at us from across the room where she and Gregory are reading. I wave at her sveltely, with a coy smile. She snorts in disgust and returns back to listening to the Brit. I turn back to Kyle who is glaring at me. "Dude, I don't give a fuck if you like Stan or whatever, but you are not getting away with not telling me about how 'Tophe plays into this."

"I'm not talking about this," he growls, "tell me what page we're on and keep your mouth shut about it. I swear to God, Craig, if _anyone _finds out about this I'll rip off whatever balls you have left. You'll be even less of a man than you are right now." I whistle and pat him on the back, commending him on a nice threat. We return to reading, to normal, and my head swarms with information.

Tweek pops up in the back of my mind. What was Kyle saying about him? I don't really remember; something about his eyes or something. Mm, yeah, Tweek has nice eyes. "Dude?" I look up and see that the redhead is giving me a pay-attention-now look, and all thoughts of the golden-haired boy leave my head as I speak words of a tragedy that never even happened.

* * *

The last hour of the day is the best. Physical Education. Yeah, education, my ass. Our teacher or, 'life coach,' as he likes to call himself, tells us a gay little life story at the beginning of the hour and then has us run laps while we think. At least, that's what he thinks we do. Instead, half of us sleep while he talks, and all of us talk amongst one another while we pretend to run around the track. Some of us, like Cartman, don't even bother to run.

Normally, I sleep while he talks, but today is kind of interesting. He's telling a story about lying. How it catches up with you and how you can never escape the lies you tell. I'm chewing on my lip, hanging on every word. What if he's right? What if every single lie I've ever told just ends up coming back to haunt me? I kind of laugh to myself as I realize how stupid that sounds and then I lean back onto the hardwood floor of the gym. No one else is listening, so why should I?

Tweek is lying next to me. He looks like he's sleeping, but I know he's not. It's just one of those rare moments. See, with Tweek, like I said, he's always moving. He has the heart of a hummingbird, I swear, because he never fucking _stops_. But right now he's hardly even twitching. Just his right hand, ever so slightly, his left hand is held tight around his thermos. I really like him in moments like this. Not any more than I usually do, I just imagine he must really be happy like that.

Peaceful, I s'pose.

Then 'life coach' is yelling at us to run laps and Tweek jumps up with a 'Gah!' and I don't even care enough to hide my laughter. Everyone laughs, well, almost everyone. Kyle and Stan both give me disapproving looks. Oh, Mr. and Mrs. High and Mighty. I roll my eyes and stand up, helping Tweek up with me. Like they know a thing about how Tweek and I function as a couple…of best friends. I really need to stop thinking about him so much.

On the track the air is abuzz with talking. Usually Tweek and I run with Token. Clyde always stops running after some amount of time and talks to Cartman and Kenny. I swear, those three have this really weird sense of humor, and they all just kind of click. Not like our little groups of best friends, but some sort of sub-group, I guess. Token is busy talking to Kyle and Stan about something, and all three of them are keeping up a good pace. Tweek and I fall somewhere in the middle, sort of half-assing the run, jogging, almost.

"I almost – agh, I almost feel asleep in the gym," Tweek says, his cheeks are red from the cold air hitting them. The air is stinging already, even though fall has barely started. It's only mid-September and it's already snowing. We're all used to it though. South Park has two seasons: winter and July. And since it's not the latter, it's the former, and none of us really think anything of it.

"I noticed," I say, feeling that stupid smirk find its way on my face. I watch as Tweek nearly trips and drops his thermos. We both stop, I pick up the thermos, and we continue on, saying nothing for a while. After a few moments of silence, which I can't stand, I decide to say something. "My power was out this morning. I sure as hell hope it's on later."

Bad choice, very bad choice. "What?!" Tweek cries, stumbling over nothing. I grab his arm, prevent him from falling and decide today is not a running day. We slow down as we reach the top of the curve of the track and move onto a walking pace, as Bebe, Rebecca and Heidi pass us, giggling. I flip them off, they stop giggling. Everything is back to normal. Tweek is staring at me in horror. "Jesus Christ, Craig! If the power is still out when I come over, oh God, we'll be in the dark the entire time! I won't be able to see and I'll trip over your sister and kill her and then your parents will sue me and I'll go to jail and – and I'll never see you again!"

The fact that he adds _that _to the end makes me flush in shock. Tweek does this, he freaks out, starts naming things that will happen until it escalates to the worst possible thing that can happen. My stomach feels funny, I must be sick. How is not seeing me the worst possible thing here? I just sigh, close my eyes and rationalize things. Tweek isn't thinking straight, he must not even know what he's saying. That didn't mean anything.

I grab Tweek's hand and stop him. "First off, the power will probably be on once we get to my house." A lie, but he looks comforted by it, so it's alright. "Secondly, even if it isn't back on – " he shudders " – it won't be pitch black. My mom has candles and shit, and _no _Tweek; nothing is going to catch on fire." He smiles weakly at me and his hand shakes in my own. "Third, if you killed my sister, my parents wouldn't sue you; in fact, I think we'd throw you a fucking party. So don't worry about it."

Tweek laughs. It's a weird sound, kind of garbled, like he doesn't really know how to laugh. I let go of his hand. He plays with the messed-up buttons on his shirt while he stares down at the track. Someone slaps my arm and I turn around in a fury only to see that Kyle and Stan are running past. Stan gives me a grin and a wink. I give him my middle finger. Token joins Tweek and I again. Things are off-balance.

The cigarettes are still in my pocket. I lightly touch one and shiver. Not from the cold, but from the overwhelming need for _something _that keeps me alive. It's not the usual feeling though. It's not a calling for nicotine or lying, not even the need to flip someone off. It's something else that I need, but I don't know what it is. For some reason I'm angry at Token. I convince myself it's because the black asshole makes us run again, but in the back of my mind I know it's something else.

* * *

I need to tell someone. I've been holding it back all day. Well, okay, only since Kyle told me in fourth hour, but it's still killing me. Part of me just wants to tell everyone on the bus. Just yell out that Kyle is a fag and has the hots for Stan. I spot Christophe in the back and get the insatiable urge to run and tell him what Kyle doesn't, for some reason I don't understand, want him to know. But I resist. Somehow. I resist. I convince myself it's because in a few minutes I can smoke.

I don't smoke at school. I know what happens when you get caught and I'm really not willing to risk that. Sure I tell people I smoke at school, and people believe me, which is _beyond _exciting. But I'm not stupid enough to really do that. No, I wait for after school to do what I need to do. At least where smoking is concerned. Clyde is talking about how stupid my obsession with Red Racer is.

"Shut up, you stupid fuck," I say, flipping him off angrily, "you never complain about it."

"Yeah, just like I bet you never complain when the French fag makes a move on you," Cartman calls from across the aisle.

"Jesus," Kenny says with a snicker, "are we _still _on that joke? I though that died at, like, lunch."

"Yeah well, I thought you died in fourth grade," Cartman shoots back. Kenny gets quiet and fumes silently. That's one thing about Kenny. We all know he dies from time to time, it's just normal for him. But mentioning it is taboo, Cartman is the only one stupid enough to do it anymore. The rest of us know that it bothers the blond, especially when he puts the hood of his parka up, like he always used to in elementary school. I don't like when he does that. Kenny is attractive. I don't care what gender, orientation, hell, what _species _you are. That boy is good looking.

"Oh, nice going fatass," Kyle says from the seat behind them. "You _know _he hates when we mention that. Can't you ever keep your mouth shut?"

Cartman rolls his eyes. I hear Token sigh and we look at one another. We all know how these two get. "Oho, does Jewboy have sand in his vagina?" Cartman simpers, batting his eyelashes. I feel the urge to gag, but instead just flip off no one in particular. Then I think of something brilliant and grin to myself.

"I know Kyle wants something in his vagina," I say with a malicious smile.

"Shut the _fuck _up, Craig," Kyle warns, his eyes smoldering, but his face growing red as everyone looks between us in shock. I just keep my smile, and the Jew cries out in frustration and sits back in his seat, crossing his arms and muttering something to himself. I've got Clyde and Token pestering me about what I meant, Stan is trying to get Kyle to talk, Kenny has his hood down again and looks very interested in what's going on, Cartman is pissed, there's no attention on him anymore.

"No, I won't tell you guys," I say, louder than I need to, to Clyde and Token, smile still directed towards the redhead. "This is all between me and Kyle, isn't that right, Kyle?"

"Fuck you, Craig," he says his face still angry.

"Same to you," I say with a wink and a flash of my middle finger, "same to you."

* * *

"So, uh, so…are you going to tell m-me?" I look up, surprised, at Tweek's pink face. We're at Stark's Pond, I'm smoking, leaning against a tree; he's standing next to me, drinking coffee and moving around like always. I wonder if his face is pink from the cold or from embarrassment or both or something else or…I'm wondering too much. Thinking too much about him again. My own face is probably pink now, but I don't care, I just smile because of course I'm going to tell him. I mean, this is Tweek, if I don't tell him, who am I going to tell?

"Fuck yeah!" I say, dropping the cigarette in the snow and them stepping over it, motioning for the blond to follow me. "Let's walk and talk." He laughs at that softly. "Okay, so," I begin as we reach the side of the road, "I'm talking to Kyle right and he – ah, says something about Stan, you know?" That's a total lie. Tweek nods, he accepts it. I feel a rush of power, and smile even more. "So I was kind of bluffing, because I _knew _something was going on, right? And the stupid Jew practically confesses to me that he's, like, totally fucking head over heels for poor Stan."

"Dude!" Tweek says in awe, his eyes getting wide. "Ack, that's like, fuck! He – gah – he _told _you that?" I hesitate, then narrow my eyes and wobble my gloved hand from side to side. "Oh God, don't tell anyone Craig!" I stop walking. We're halfway to my house. I wasn't expecting to hear him to say something like that. He stops too, he's shaking more than he usually does, and his face is red now. "It's just…Jesus…it's just, how would you feel if you had that kind of, ack, feelings and then someone _told _the person?"

He seems so serious about this. Like he can imagine what it would feel like. I falter and then smile warily at him. "Dude, don't worry about it, you're the only one I'm telling," I say softly, ruffling his hair. He shudders. "Just, don't you go telling anyone. Especially not Christophe, for some reason Kyle doesn't want him to know, especially. Just don't tell anyone and we'll be fine, alright?"

There's a silent moment, then his eyes grow wide and he's clutching at his silver thermos. "Gah, too much pressure!" he cries, raising his hands to the side of his face. The thermos falls to the ground in the process, clattering against the pavement with a metallic clang that lets me know it's empty. Tweek always finishes his coffee by the end of the day; it's a ritual for him. I grab it from the ground and then, against my better judgment, take his hand on my own.

We stay that way until we reach my house.

**A/N**: Longest chapter I've ever written. For any story. Period. If you read this and liked it, leave me a review. I don't care how many people put this on alerts, if I don't get reviews I won't end up continuing it. If people don't review, I don't feel like it's worth and end up deleting stories. So leave me a review and make me happy, please? :D  
Until next time (hopefully), tweekers


	2. Just Give Me A Call

**Addict**

**A/N**: I'm glad people like this story. Seriously, Craig is insanely fun to write, so I would have been upset if I hadn't gotten a good number of reviews. That applies to every chapter though. It's not that I expect a lot of reviews; I just don't see the point in writing something that people don't take the time to review. You know what I mean? Anyway, let's get onto the incredibly angst-ridden chapter. Well, actually that's pretty inaccurate... There's a _flashback _by the way, nothing big, but you'll know it when it happens. Also, the whole last chapter and a lot of this chapter occur on a Friday.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings**: Swearing and _lots_ of it, eventual slash. Honestly, if you don't like slash, don't read this, neither one of us benefits.  
**Pairings**: Craig/Tweek, a million and one side pairings that even _I'm _not sure about yet. Probably some Style, Benny, maybe even some Frenchy Jew goodness, if you know what I mean. (by the way, if you like yourself some 'Tophe/Kyle you should check out **sweet pandemonium**'s one shot about them, it's good, I promise)

**Chapter Two**: Just Give Me A Call

My mom is happy to see us. She always is. She loves when I bring one of my friends over, especially Tweek. I don't understand why that is. If I was her I would _hate _having Tweek in my house. He always knocks things over and spills things. There's still a dark red stain in the living room from a sleepover we had years ago. I kind of miss those days. Alright, I really miss those days.

I want to watch Red Racer. With Tweek, I always get my way, he just nods and we go in my room. It's bare, my room, that is, with dark blue walls and a beige carpet, but I have a television set with a DVD player, so that sort of makes up for the lack of decoration. For a minute the television won't turn on. I hit it a few times, flip it off for good measure, and it finally turns on – to static. I don't have cable in my room. But it doesn't really matter; I don't like what's on the television these days.

Everything is about a group of whiny teenagers living in California or some forty-year old dude trying to have sex with twelve year old boys. I'm not sure which one is worse, and I don't really want to think about it, because I kind of think the answer isn't what most people think it is. I find the DVD I want, put it in the player and then fling myself down onto my bed. Tweek sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, pulling his legs up from the ground and encircling his arms around them.

He always does that. For some reason I find myself watching Tweek out of the corner of my eye, knowing he does that for the same reason he used to when we were little. A small smile forms on my face as I realize he's looking at me now. As for why Tweek does what he does, I know his motive is the same as it was years ago. After all, I think to myself, turning back to a show I've loved since third grade, nothing really changes around here.

* * *

_"Dude, you invited _Tweek _over?" Clyde asked me looking almost ready to cry at the thought. "I'm not coming over then." I just flip him off. "Seriously, man, you could have invited anyone over and you chose that spaz? The last time I even remember you two talking was, like, last year, in the hospital." I felt kind of bad and squirmed, looking at the ground and tugging my hat down by the earflaps, until the dark blue material nearly covered my eyes. _

_"We've actually been talking a lot lately, on the weekends and stuff," I admitted, still keeping my eyes averted. "His dad gives us coffee for free and our mom's like to talk, so we kind of have to act like we get along." I bit at my lip, searching for how to tell Clyde what was going on. At the time it seemed like such a difficult thing to tell him, like we were breaking up or something gay like that. "I think he's kind of…my best friend." The last three words came out quietly, and there was no response until I looked back up at Clyde. _

_There were tears in his eyes. I swear, he could be such a fucking crybaby sometimes. I just wanted to tell him to suck it up, act like a man. Maybe it was my fault; I was always kind of picking on him. But he made himself an easy target and I can't blame myself for that. "Y-you're best friends with Tweek?" he mumbled. I just nodded. "Well, f-fine then, I guess I'll just go be best friends with Token or something." He sniffled, turned around and walked away. I flipped him off. What a dick, he just ditches me for Token._

_I found Tweek a few minutes later and we walked to my house in silence. We planned on walking, but I didn't plan on the blond being so quiet. He always had something to say. Whether it was about his newest fear or his favorite flavor of coffee, it's never quiet. Except that time it was, the only sound was the crunching of snow and ice beneath our feet and the sharp intakes of breath in the cold weather. _

_"H-hey, Craig?" I looked over at Tweek, but he didn't look at me. "You and Clyde, I saw you guys talking and – gah – he looked really upset. You didn't tell him that we were best friends. I mean, I told you about how much pressure that would be! Ack! I don't even want to think about it." His hands flew to his temples, lightly massaging there. He was years away from getting his silver thermos at that point, so I didn't have to worry about it falling to the ground. _

_Instead I had to worry about this stupid 'best friend' business. The funny thing was, up until about a week ago I hadn't even been aware I _was _Clyde's best friend. It was like, once he felt me drifting away he felt the need to remind me that he was closer to me than anyone else. Right in time to make me feel like an ass for being best friends with Tweek. "If it's really that much pressure," I told him, my face serious as we stepped onto my front porch, "I can just go back to Clyde."_

_That just got him even more worked up. Even back then I was able to calm him down. It seemed so much more innocent when we were nine years old. So much more a simple act of friendship, rather than something I needed to reevaluate in my mind. Back then a lot was different and a lot was the same. We went to my room to watch Red Racer, but at that time there were commercials every seven minutes because the show was still on regular television. _

_During one of the commercials I looked over at Tweek. The blond was sitting on the edge of the bed, arms circled around his legs, chin resting on his knees, eyes glued to the glowing television screen. "Why are you sitting like that?" I asked, pulling my hat off of my head so I could run a hand through my raven hair. Despite the fact that South Park was in the midst of one of its coldest winters ever my hair was still slightly damp with sweat. _

_"Well, because – ngh – there are all sorts of things under people's beds, just hiding there and waiting to grab your legs and pull you under and rip you to shreads!" the caffeinated boy had cried, burying his face in his hands as he did so. The last few words he said were muffled as a result. "I just sleep on a mattress, at least that way I know there's nothing hiding under it waiting to – to, I don't know, oh God!" He looked like he was going to start gouging his eyes out so I figured I should do something._

_It came naturally, surprisingly, throwing my arm around his shoulders, telling him that was silly, nothing was under my bed but dirty clothes, old toys and maybe a dust bunny or two. Certainly nothing that was going to rip anyone to shreads. He didn't believe me at first, and I had the irresistible urge to flip him off and just ignore him, because Red Racer was back on and I never missed one second of that show. _

_Yet I found myself on the floor, pulling Tweek down with me so we could lie on our stomachs and I could show him there was nothing under the bed. Nothing that would hurt us. He still didn't believe me, freaked out and grab my arm, forced me back to the bed where he sat, looking even more worried now. "I think I saw something under there with eyes, glowing red eyes, Craig! Ack!" he cried, pulling at his golden hair. _

_"Tweek," I had said, innocently, "even if there was anything under my bed, it's not a big deal, dude. I'd totally beat the shit out of anything that tried to hurt you. You're my best friend." With that, he stopped worrying, we went back to watching Red Racer, and I pretended I had never seen the faint blush on his cheeks. Or maybe I really didn't think anything of it. We were only nine, after all._

* * *

By now I was engrossed in the episode we were watching, even though I knew what would happen. I have this habit, another one, of running my tongue over my teeth when I'm worried. I think that it stems from when I got my braces off in eighth grade. Ever since then the enamel of my teeth has felt really sleek and nice, and somehow it calms me down when there's nothing to be angry about or lie about or smoke.

True to form Tweek keeps glancing down at the floor, probably checking for any monsters that are peering up at him, waiting for the second he slips his skinny legs down to the ground. He still hasn't gotten over that fear, no matter how many times I tell him there's nothing down there. I give him a reassuring smile and he gives me a tight one back, like he really has no reason to smile or something. That makes me feel bad.

I know he would never admit it. But Tweek _hates _Red Racer. Clyde actually likes it even though he makes fun of it; we get nostalgic talking about it and watching it when he's over. Token doesn't like it one bit and let's us know it; he doesn't even tolerate the show. Neither does Tweek, really. He just zones out, twitches a lot and pays very little attention. The thing is, he never objects to watching it, so I just go ahead and force him to sit through episodes with me.

For whatever reason I feel bad about that now. Like I should apologize to him for that. But I don't, I just wait for the episode to end and then look at him. He looks ready to say something, like he's been thinking about it for the twenty-something minutes I sat there, silently watching a show I should be long over. He looks thoughtful, even though his hands are shaking something awful and his cheeks are lightly flushed pink. He reaches out for my hand – and my cell phone rings.

I jump off of the bed quickly. Much too quickly. I don't know why I'm trying to get away from him so fucking _quickly_. I don't use my cell phone much. I forgot it this morning, somewhere in a pile of clothes, like I usually do. After throwing a few shirts out of the way I find it. I recognize Token's number and flip the phone open. "'Lo?" I say in a monotone.

"Well, Jesus, don't sound so excited," Token says sarcastically. I hear someone talking in the background, a nasally voice that sounds like, who else, Clyde. Token's voice gets muffled as he responds. I turn to the blond in my room. He's watching me and I grin at him and mouth 'Token' so he knows who I'm talking to. He smiles back weakly. "Alright, sorry, Clyde's picking out movies." Which can only mean one thing. "You and Tweek want to come over?"

Looking up I see that Tweek is about to get off of my bed. This is a complicated procedure. He has to stand up on my bed first and then step back, take a deep shaky breath, and jump as far as he can. Which he does right now. He lands with a 'Gah!' in the pile of clothes in front of me. "Wanna go to Token's?" I ask softly, brushing his blond bangs out of his eyes. Golden eyes stare up at me and he slowly nods. "Yeah, Token, we'll be over in a little while."

The entire time we walk to Token's house I have to resist the urge to hold Tweek's hand.

* * *

Apparently Clyde does have a brain. Despite not being able to do simple multiplication, he's surprisingly good at looking ahead. He got a Tweek movie for us, a perfect world movie. He and Token are already asleep, laying in front of the big screen television in Token's living room. Token always falls asleep during these sorts of movies and Clyde just wasn't built for late nights.

As for Tweek and I, we're wide awake. Tweek never sleeps, or if he does none of us know about it. I, unlike Clyde, am a late night sort of guy. There's rarely a morning where I don't see dawn, at least where weekends are concerned. We're playing a drinking game, but it's with coffee, not alcohol. Every time the girl in the movie does this whiny noise – and believe me, she does it a lot – we have to drink coffee from these little tea cup things that Token's mom has.

Truthfully, it's not really doing much for us. It's just coffee after all. But Tweek likes it, he lets out these little laughs every time we have to take another 'shot' and whatever makes Tweek this happy is good with me. It's all going well, too. A normal night over at Token's. Whiny girl noise. Coffee. Whiny girl noise. More coffee. We're both wide awake, jittery and alive with caffeine coursing through our systems.

Until Tweek spills a 'shot' on himself and starts to freak out. I can understand why. We just made a fresh pot, after all, so it's scalding hot. But everyone besides us is sleeping and Tweek is making way more noise than he needs to. So I do the stupidest thing ever. I push Tweek so he's lying on the couch and straddle him, pinning him down with my own body. "Shh," I mutter to him.

He stares up at me, wide golden eyes, speaking a million words to my senses, while he keeps silent. Then he lets this tiny, tiny _whimper _escape his lips, like he's pleading with me for something; and somehow that's all it takes. No one wakes up when Tweek is screaming about how the coffee is going to burn through his skin like acid, but that stupid, little whimper does the trick.

"Did not need to see that." I turn to see Clyde sitting up, looking at us with a sleepy, but amused, expression. All of a sudden I'm eager to get away from Tweek. I back up as far as I can, all the way to the other side of couch, as close as I can get to the other side of the country at the moment. I give Clyde the finger and do the same for Token who hasn't said anything but is just sitting up. Chances are he didn't see anything.

"I spilled some coffee on myself, Craig was just, gah, he was just helping!" Tweek cries in protest to nothing that really exists. He's looking at all of us in turn, lacing his fingers together as his face grows gradually redder.

"Oh, yeah, straddling you was _really _going to help get that stain out," Clyde says, grinning now. "Tell me, Craig, if I ever spill something on myself will you help _me_?" He bats his eyelashes at me and Token snorts, then falls back onto the floor, exhausted, and back to sleep. I kind of wish Clyde would do the same, but he's looking at me with this look. It reminds me of how Stan looked at me, today at lunch. Like he _knows _something.

"He was being loud! I was trying to shut him up so he didn't wake you guys up," I try to explain. But it doesn't come out convincing at all, I just sound pathetic. Clyde smirks at me; I glare back and have to fight the urge to flip him off again. "C'mon Tweek," I grumble, standing up and walking out of the room. Tweek follows me. He doesn't ask where we're going.

This has happened before. Not me straddling Tweek on the couch, mind you. But, Tweek spilling things on himself? It's a common occurrence. We're used to it, and whenever it happens, one of us lets him borrow their stuff. Since its Token's house, he'll have to borrow a shirt, or probably a sweater, since Token only really wears sweaters. Token's room, unlike my own, is bursting with personality. Posters of places he wants to go someday, movies and bands. The only poster in my room is, you guessed it, a well-worn Red Racer one.

I throw open Token's closet doors open in a fury. I'm still muttering to myself about how stupid this all is. I'm not even sure what I mean. This situation, this night, or just life in general? I have no idea. I find a green sweater in the back of the closet and throw it to Tweek. He drops it instantaneously from his shaking hands and I pick it up with a sigh, waiting as he tries to unbutton his shirt. He's having a hard time.

Resignedly, after a few minutes of him trying and failing to with every button, I help him with it. I don't look at his face, I know he'll be blushing by now, but I don't really care at this point. "Craig?" he says, quietly, when I'm halfway done unbuttoning his shirt.

"Mm?" I answer, not looking up.

"I'm sorry this whole thing…Jesus Christ, this was my f-fault, wasn't it?" he stutters out, miserably.

"What?" I say, backing away from him. There's no need to be so close to him, I have to tell myself, now that I'm done helping. I hand him the sweater and he takes it. I focus on his face while he slips off his shirt. Funny, I never had to focus before, I never thought about looking anywhere else. "It's really not, Tweek; I don't even know what I was thinking. You know how I am."

He nods and pulls the sweater over his head. It's much too big for him, and I'm suddenly aware of how small he is. Maybe it's all the coffee, maybe that shit really does stunt your growth. Tweek is short, to say that he's at average height would really be pushing it, and he must not weigh much either, I notice, because the green material just barely shows his frame.

"It's just," he says, shaky hands rising to circle around an invisible coffee mug I know he's pretending is there, "I, I, gah, I _always _fuck things up, don't I, Craig? I wouldn't even be surprised if you guys just ditched me one day. Ngh, I must, gah, really get on your nerves." He's shaking even more than usual, looking petrified at the thought of us leaving him, despite the fact that he says he wouldn't be surprised.

"Nah, not at all," I say simply, reaching out to play with his hair. He shudders under my touch, like he always does. "Don't be so stupid, Tweek. We've had eight years to ditch you. Sorry to say, but you're stuck with us." I smile at him, he smiles at me, and everything is back to normal. Balance is restored. All is right in the world, at least for that moment.

* * *

The weekend passes in a blur. I didn't finish the other eighteen French conjugations and I spend most of Saturday struggling with them. A few times I almost consider calling Christophe, but I can just imagine him inviting himself over to my house and seeing as how both of my parents work on Saturday, I don't exactly feel like risking that.

Sunday is ritualistic as usual. Church, home, sleep the day away because I got up so damn early, wake up in the evening, do the rest of my homework and then sleep again. By far that is the most wasted day of my week, every week. If I had to choose between dying and living the rest of my life on Sundays, I think I'd rather just drop dead right now.

Today isn't looking all that much better than Sunday though. Nothing exciting has happened at all. That may be because I skipped lunch completely to smoke, which I usually do on Monday's because, let's face it, it's the first day of the week and it's fucking stressful. Now it's fifth hour, Human Bio, a class my mom insisted I take and that I'm failing miserably. So when I get called down to the counselor's, I figure that must be why.

In fact, I'm completely prepared for a you-can-do-so-much-better-reach-for-the-stars speech when I walk into the counselor's office. She's typical, a Miss Something, messy, wrinkled red blouse, black dress pants, brown, mousy hair pulled up into a sloppy bun, peering at me over black glasses that she fixes every few seconds as she tells me exactly why I'm down here. It's not because of my grades.

"Mister, ah, Nommel is it?" she asks, as she looks at what I presume is my school record.

"It is," I respond, blandly. I just want to get out of here and get to Physical Education. I'm looking at the clock and trying to figure out how to drag this out for the rest of fifth hour, but find a way to make sure it doesn't stretch on into sixth hour. Because I'm so lost in this thought, I only just realize that Miss Something is talking to me again.

"I'm going to be frank with you, Craig," she says. I want to be sarcastic and say something like: 'Oh, I thought it was Mister Nommel. Is _it _now Craig?' But I resist. In fact, I'm resisting a lot right now, because I really want to give this ugly bitch the finger, but I have the feeling she won't believe me when I try to convince her I didn't do it. "I heard from a source that will remain anonymous, that you were smoking at lunch today."

I stare at her. That's what I'm here for? I want to laugh. I just want to laugh right in her face. Because if they called me down to the counselor, that means I'm not getting punished. What that means is I'm getting the smoking-is-bad lecture and I don't really need to hear that again. "Look, lady," I say, smirking at her and leaning back in the uncomfortable chair she has for me, "I learned why smoking is bad from some shitty presentation in fourth grade. Believe me, if you had seen these people, you'd be going through a pack a day, too."

"A pack a day, huh?" she says, scribbling something down on a pad of paper. I glare at her, because I know she wrote down that I smoke a pack a day, when I don't, that was just…dramatic exaggeration, was all. She smiles sweetly at me. I don't like her already. I have to cross my arms and grip my fingers around them tightly, so I don't do what I so desperately want to. "I have to wonder, Craig, why do you smoke? Not enough attention at home? Feeling neglected?"

"Yeah that makes a lot of sense," I quip, "I smoke at _school _to get attention at _home_. Goddamn, you're a miracle worker. I'll just smoke at home so my mom and dad notice my plea for their attention. Can I go now?"

"So why do you do it then, Craig?" Miss Something asks, her eyes never looking at me. She's distant, skimming the paper she was looking at before when she questioned my name. "Does it relax you? Keep your mind off of other things you want to do? Clear your mind of thoughts you don't want to think? Something like that?" She smiles at my wide-eyed stare because, fuck, she's pinpointed what smoking is for me.

"Yeah," I mumble, looking away from her gaze.

"Like what?" she says, her voice picking up in speed. She's excited, like a hunter that's closing in on its prey, she's found my weakness. Brown hair falls into matching eyes as she leans forward, over her desk, an inviting smile on her face. I hate to admit it, but Miss Something, whatever her real name is, is really something. Suddenly I kind of _want _to tell her what I need smoking for. I feel like she's someone to confide in.

"A lot of stuff," I admit. She nods, letting me know to tell her everything without saying a word. "It's just, I don't know, I have stuff that keeps me from getting stressed. Things that sort of keep me balanced. Smoking is one of them, and when I smoke every other urge kind of melts away. Like, flipping people off, lying, Tweek." I freeze at the last one. I did _not _mean to say the last one.

"Tweek?" Miss Something says, her face confused.

"He's, uh, he's my best friend," I choke out, feeling the blood rush to my face, as she 'hmm's and looks at the paper before speaking again.

"Well your transcript is pretty detailed with the fact that you…overuse your middle finger in vulgar ways," she decides to say slowly. I barely muffle my laughter with my hand and her smile falls for a second, but returns a second later. "Lying is self explanatory; you probably do that for attention. But, your best friend, this Tweek, is it? Why did you say his name?"

I'm still kind of pissed that she came to the same conclusion as Token, that my lying has to do with wanting attention, so for a moment I just stare at her blankly. Then I really think about it. Why _did _I say Tweek? It just came out so naturally. Smoking gets rid of thoughts about flipping people off, lying to people and Tweek. It's simple as that, but I would never admit it to anyone. Especially not the blond himself.

"I think you're addicted," the brunette adult says after I don't speak for a few minutes.

"Well, no fuck, lady," I tell her. "It's called nicotine."

"No," she says, exasperation clear in her tone. I want to punch her, but instead I clutch my arms tighter, feeling my nails dig into the skin, even past my dark blue sweater. She was the one who chose to work with teenagers in a public high school; she should be more understanding, or at least patient. "Of course you're addicted to cigarettes, Craig, most people are after they smoke for a certain amount of time. I mean the other things. Flipping people off, as you so eloquently put it. Making up lies for attention. Even your friend, it's safe to say."

"I am not addicted to Tweek," I say with faltering certainty. He's my best friend. I can think about him all I want. Just because I think about him more than anyone else, that doesn't mean shit. Besides, since when has been being addicted to a person even _possible_? It's completely absurd. I have half the mind the just flip her off and leave; it's almost time for sixth hour to start anyway. But I know that's not an option.

"Hmm," she mutters, shuffling papers around on her desk. "Can you say that for sure? Do you even know what an addiction is?"

"Yeah, it's – when you…like, drugs and shit," I finish lamely. I know what addiction is, but it's not so simple to put into words. It just _is_.

"Yes, there's addiction to drugs," Miss Something says thoughtfully. "But there's also the sense of the word that means a strong devotion to something, and inclination towards it. A want, need or crave for something, which can also be a person. You might even feel the need to protect or help the person. Does that sort of sound like how you feel about Tweek?"

The funny thing is. That sounds exactly like how I feel about Tweek. I've never really thought about it before. Tweek has been someone I needed to protect since that day in fourth grade that he came over to my house. Ever since then I'm the one who calms him down, I'm the one who looks out for him. Maybe I am – "No," I say, trying my best to look bored. "He's my best friend, but I don't _crave _for him." I roll my eyes.

Lying makes me feel better. I loosen the grip I have on my arms and keep my bored expression. I think she knows that I'm lying now, but she just sighs and tells me to go to class. Somehow we've timed it perfectly to my liking and I'm only a few minutes late to Physical Education. 'Life coach' yells at me for a couple of minutes and I flip him off when he turns around to yell at the other kids for talking while he's bitching at me. I bet he wonders why a few kids are snickering at him.

"Where were you?" Token asks as I join my friends while 'life coach' drones on about how we should nevereverevereverever do drugs.

"Counselor," I growl, trying my best to look _really _pissed off about it, so they don't question me about it. I manage a smile for Tweek, because he always deserves a smile and he gives me a twitchy one back. Then I survey the class. There are a small number of people who know where I was at lunch today. This includes, of course, the kids I smoked with, but I doubt they told anyone.

Which leaves our group, and I know immediately who the culprit is, because he's blushing and avoiding my eyes at all costs.

Oh, yes, Kyle Broflovski made the biggest mistake of his life when he told that nameless counselor bitch what I was doing at lunch. God knows why he did. He knows what I have to hold over his head. But it doesn't matter why he did it, not anymore. I flip him off and he sees me do it and frantically looks away. I wonder if he thinks that's it. No, Kyle, you're fucked in more ways than one, many more ways.

* * *

It must be a shock when I get on the bus and don't sit next to Tweek. I wink at him as I walk past though, so hopefully he knows this isn't in bad spirit. I also exchange looks with Kyle. He sees the look in my eyes; I see the look in his. He grabs onto the sleeve of my sweater as I pass pulls me into the empty seat next to him. Stan isn't on the bus yet and he uses that to his advantage.

"Dude, let me explain," he hisses at me, green eyes pleading.

"Much too late for that, Kyle, but it was a valiant effort," I tell him, patting his green ushanka, and getting up so that Stan can sit next to him. Stan gives me a questioning look, but I just smile at him. I feel kind of bad for Kyle's best friend, getting pulled into something that really isn't his fault. It's all the Jew's fault, but he should have known before he went and fucking _told _on me like we're in elementary school.

I head towards the back of the bus, to where the foreign kids sit. "Get up," I tell Gregory, who's sitting next to my primary target. The Brit looks about ready to say a few choice words to me, but I give him the middle finger and repeat, "Get up, I just need to talk to him for a few seconds and then you can go back to stroking his ego, alright?" I'm rather proud of myself, because the blond Brit gets up, gives me an angry look and then sits with Wendy.

I sit down next to The Mole. He's not Christophe right now, and believe me, they're two different people. Christophe speaks in somewhat broken English, helps you with homework and gives you strained smiles. The Mole yells at you, chain-smokes like a mother fucker and barely gives you the time of day. I can tell I'm not with Christophe right now, because The Mole ignores me, chews on his unlit cigarette and stares out the window. The best part of all of this is, I know how to get Christophe out to play. There's a method to his madness.

His eyes are cold and hard right now, staring out at the frozen landscape as the bus begins to pull away from the school. He doesn't give me a second glance, only a quick one when I immediately sit down, after that he decides I don't exist. Step one, full name. "Christophe?" I simper, softly, moving close so I'm _almost _touching him, but just barely. He stiffens, and then looks down at his own legs.

He still pretends I'm not there. Which means it's time for step two, nickname. "Aw, come on, 'Tophe," I say sweetly, almost directly into his ear. I didn't think it was possible, but he completely relaxes, even thought just seconds ago he looked like he had been paralyzed by my voice. Now I can see his eyes melting into Christophe, changing a bit, looking at me, but not in my eyes.

Step three, contact. I reach out and touch his knee. He shudders when I touch him. Not like Tweek, never like Tweek, nothing like my blond best friend, who seems to be invading my thoughts. But he shudders nonetheless and I know I've got him, not The Mole, but Christophe, within my grasp. "What iz et zat you want, Nommel?" he asks, voice hushed.

I surprise even myself, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and playing with it in my hand. He keeps his chocolate brown eyes locked one what my gloved fingers are doing. For a few more minutes I tease him, because I know what he wants. Then, "You know Kyle Broflovski right?" The French boy nods. "And Stan Marsh, his best friend?" Another nod, this one less friendly. This is going to be good. "Well, Kyle doesn't want me to tell you, but, truth be told, that just made me want to tell you more. It seems our little Jew is totally gay for his best friend."

Here's the thing. I don't know what I was expecting Christophe to do. I thought maybe he would find it funny. Perhaps he might laugh a little bit at it. Maybe he's more of a gossip than I know and he would tell the entire school. Something like that. I was not expecting him to snatch the cigarette from my hands and look at me with cold eyes. I was not expecting to have The Mole snap at me, "Get ze fuck away from moi, _now_."

As I head back to my regular seat next to Tweek I see that Kyle is looking at me. It's not his one of his usual looks of annoyance or friendliness; it's this mixture of hurt and anger. Like he doesn't know how to feel about me. I wonder if he watched what I did and, if so, did he figure out what I had done? Whatever he saw, he deserves the middle finger right now, so that's exactly what I give him.

When I sit down next to Tweek I'm reminded of what he said on Friday. How he told me that I shouldn't tell anyone else about what Kyle had confided to me. I suddenly feel like a terrible person. Not because I told Kyle's secret, but rather because I broke my word to Tweek, that he was the only person I was telling. That makes me feel like shit, like some sort of worthless piece of shit, for some reason. If there's one person in the world that I don't want to disappoint, it's Tweek. I think he has this idea in his mind that I'm some sort of superhero. But in the grand scheme of things, I kind of think I'm the villain. I think I always will be.

"Who were you talking to?" Tweek asks, sounding dejected. His soft, morose voice makes me jump out of my stupor. He's playing with the black top of his silver thermos, looking nervous. Not normal Tweek nervous either. He's nervous of what I'm going to say, I know it. I don't know why, and I can't see how it would matter. I wish Tweek wasn't so nervous around me.

I make Tweek nervous; Tweek makes me calm.

"'Tophe," I say easily. The silver thermos falls out of his hands and into mine. He looks at me with shocked, golden eyes. "Just for a second, Tweeky, about nothing important. Don't worry about it." But who am I kidding? This is Tweek, for fuck's sake; of course he's going to worry about it. Clyde and Token engage me in pointless conversation, but Tweek stays silent for the rest of the bus ride.

For some reason I want to reach out and touch Tweek's knee, like I did with Christophe. I wonder, how would Tweek react?

**A/N**: Aha! The story _does _have a somewhat substantial plot. Somewhat. Also, because I pretty much have epicly failed at including them in the story so far, Kenny and Butters are in the next chapter, rather prominently. Anyway. Once again, if you want me to continue, leave a review, because I only continue if I get reviews.  
Until next time, tweekers


	3. Now I've Made This Bed

**Addict**

**A/N**: You guys are pretty much awesome. Keep leaving reviews like you're leaving them. Some people said something about how Kyle told on Craig. Oho. You'll see what happened. Or will you. I know some people have expressed the fact that they don't like 'Tophe/Ky. But be patient people, the only pairing that's even near set in stone for me is, of course, Craig and Tweek.  
Secret time: I've had this chapter _almost _done for a while, then I edited it completely, then I edited it back to how it was completely. It was supposed to be longer than what it is now, but, fuck, it's not. Sorry about how short it is...  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized? Also, the few lines from Othello that I used belong to the one and only William Shakespeare, so don't get delusional and think I'm him.  
**Warnings and Pairings**: You know these by now, kids, no need to reiterate.

**Chapter Three**: Now I've Made This Bed

Kenny McCormick kind of bothers me. Now as much as, say, Cartman, and not in the same way either. With Kenny it's more when I'm near him something is really off. Like everything he does is this huge façade. Because most of the time Kenny is simply indifferent to everything that doesn't concern himself, except when it comes to three things. Those three things are: sex, illegal substances and relationships.

The first two don't exactly come as a shock. Kenny's like a Sex Education textbook, but that doesn't mean he's a whore. I wouldn't call him that. At least, not to his face. It's the same with illegal substances. He doesn't do them a lot, at least not anymore; he just knows everything there is to know about them. I don't know if he spends a lot of time on the internet or it's all actually from experience, but he's the person to go for about it.

When it comes to relationships, you wouldn't actually think Kenny would know shit about them. He's never really been in one, unless you count the rumored two week fling he had with Bebe in the summer before tenth grade, but no one really does. With Kenny and relationships, I think it's more of a matter of him watching all of us fail miserably at them. He knows exactly what not to do because he's seen every mistake being made. He's the one who got Stan and Wendy back together during ninth grade. Not that it lasted long, but it wouldn't have lasted at all without the blond intervention.

So, Kenny's good at giving advice about those sorts of things. But usually he keeps to himself. He waits for you to come and ask him what you should do. I think he likes to see people need him, have them come to him with their problems for once. It works out well for everyone in the end. The problem is that recently Kenny has taken it upon himself to actually search people out and give them advice.

An even worse problem is that, according to various sources, he has the sudden urge to talk to me. Which is odd, to say the least, because my relationship with Kenny works something like this: it doesn't. If I need something from him, advice, a video game, a ride home from somewhere, I'm comfortable enough to ask him. The same goes for him with me. But are we really friends? Let me put it this way, it's easier for me to have a conversation with Cartman than it is with Kenny.

It all stems back to one very innocent mistake I made in seventh grade. I insulted Butters Stotch. It always comes back to Butters, doesn't it? But, see, I thought that by then, by the time that I was already hanging out behind school rather than in the hallways, by the time that I thought it was cool to have a cigarette permanently attached to my lips, by the time that none of us even talked anymore, I thought that by then it wouldn't really matter if I made fun of Butters, of all people. I thought that in _fourth grade _it didn't matter.

All of a sudden, in seventh grade, I made one comment about the shirt Butters was wearing – it was seriously flaming, literally, pink flames – and Kenny McCormick punches me in the face five times. What's wrong with this picture? It's like those picture games they have in the newspaper. One is normal, all of us kind of ignoring it, moving on with our days. The other one is what you thought was completely weird and out there, the trailer trash boy in the orange parka standing up for the stuttering, blond boy who dresses like a fag.

Ever since then, even with things how they are now, being around Kenny is like trying to see through this front he puts up. I don't really know how he feels about me. It's been almost five years since that incident, and it's like he still holds a grudge against me for it. I guess I'm not one to talk, considering how I hold grudges longer than anyone has a right to. That's what's so odd about all this though.

We don't talk if we can't help it. If the situation arises, we can make alright conversation. But if Kenny is looking to talk to me, that means he's noticed something and, fuck, is he perceptive, which means that there's a huge chance I don't even know what he's going to talk to me about. And, honestly, I don't feel like discussing anything he'll want to discuss. Not in the least. Which means I have to avoid him at all costs.

Which means I have to be in the last place he would expect me. Unfortunately for me, that means no smoking at lunch. That means no asking for cigarettes at lunch. What it means, instead, in the twisted logic of my mind, is that I'm going to stay in the boy's bathroom for forty-five minutes while the rest of my classmates are in the cafeteria. It seems that I really wasn't thinking at all, because about five minutes into my oh-so-smart plan, I'm joined by Stan. Joy.

For a minute he just kind of stares at me. Probably because I'm currently sitting underneath the automatic hand-dryer and letting the warm air blow my bangs into my eyes. Then, he does the unthinkable, and sits next to me. "Dude," he says, seriously, "what the fuck did you do to Kyle?" I feel the smirk form on my face, my middle finger itching to be shoved in his face, to tell him exactly what to do. Somehow I resist it, miraculously, I speak instead.

"You should be asking, what the fuck did Kyle do to me?" I say, in a cheery voice, almost drowned out by the air blowing in my face. I frown and shift a bit so I'm not directly underneath the vent and it stops, just like magic.

"I don't really care what he did to _you_, Craig," Stan snaps at me. He usually doesn't get this angry. That's Kyle territory, and Stan doesn't invade that, he just waits things out, keeps his frustration to himself, quietly fuming, so I'm a little bit taken aback by how he lashes out now. But, like the pansy he is, he immediately feels bad. "Goddamn it," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing. "Sorry, Craig, it's just…I don't know what you did, but it really got to him, whatever it was."

Now I'm not so sure how to feel about that. Yesterday and all last night I was excited to come to school and watch Kyle get the payback he so rightly deserves. But…I really didn't want Stan to become such a huge part of this. Thinking about it now, what I did could be completely detrimental to their friendship and if that doesn't make me feel like a prick, I don't know what does. I need a cigarette like I need air right now.

Stan continues when I don't say anything. I have no idea what to say. "I mean, he came over to my house after school. The entire time he just sat there, like his life was over or something. I don't get it, what could _you _do that would be that bad?" I hate the way that he says that, like out of everyone in the world whatever I could have done shouldn't matter. Like I'm just the tiniest little piece of bacteria on the planet. Oh, sure, I can make you sick, but you'll get over it quickly. Well, Kyle always did get sick easily.

"Well he told on me," I whine, immediately realizing how childish that sounds. I might as well have accused Kyle of being a 'tattletale.' I flush lightly under the look Stan gives me.

"He told on you? Oh, yeah, Craig, oh, he must have really deserved what you did then," Stan says sarcastically, leaning his head back against the tiled, bathroom wall. "You know, you're really stupid sometimes. I really just guessed that this was your doing. You don't come to lunch, that whole thing on the bus yesterday, you're avoiding everyone. I just guessed that you had something to do with it, I didn't know anything, but you just admitted to me that you did something. Nice going."

I can't hold it back, I just flip him off, glare at him, let all my anger show. "Fuck you Stan, seriously. So what if I have a guilty conscience?" I spit at him, glaring the entire time.

"No, you don't," Stan tells me, having the audacity to look amused at the situation. "If you had a guilty conscience you wouldn't be hiding in the bathroom during lunch, you'd be telling Kyle you were sorry."

"I'm not hiding from Kyle fucking Broflovski," I cry, groaning inwardly as I drop my head into my hands. "You know Kenny wants to talk to me, right?"

"Oh," Stan mumbles, actually managing to sound sorry for me. "I guess that makes sense. It's just, Craig, what did he do, exactly? And what did you do? It's just…you have to understand. Whatever you did, it made my best friend go away. He's not acting like himself. You get that right? I mean, what if that happened to Tweek? You'd react the same way and you know it."

He's right. Stan and I are a lot alike in that sense. We'll do anything for our best friend. Stan for Kyle and me for Tweek. I guess we kind of get each other that way. I'm always defending Tweek against things people say about him. Stan's always defending Kyle against, well, just Cartman really, but there's nothing 'just' about Cartman and the things he makes fun of Kyle for, so we're basically in the same situation.

"I know, it's just, I'm pretty sure he told the counselor that I was _smoking_," I say, trying to stress the importance. "I know I shouldn't do it, so it's really my fault. But, dude, you guys all know I do it and I have been doing it for a while now. So why the fuck now? Why does he feel the need to go tell that stupid bitch something that's my business? He doesn't tell her about anyone else who smokes, just _me_."

"How do you know?" Stan says suddenly. I can practically hear him trying to use logic here..

"What?" I ask, trying my best to sound confused.

"You know what I mean," Stan says slowly. "Did someone tell you that Kyle said something? Or did you just jump to conclusions, Craig?" I blush and he frowns at me, knowingly. I need to stop this. When did I become so transparent? I'm losing my grip on controlling my emotions today. "What, did you just decide that you liked Kyle least of everyone or something?"

"No," I say, whining again. "He looked guilty and wouldn't look at me. Everyone else was acting normal, but that stupid emotional dick…he knew what he had done. I know it was him. You _know _how Kyle acts when he does something. What else was I supposed to think, considering he has a serious superiority complex and everything?" I know I'm being stubborn and maybe even a bit unfair, but at the moment I don't really care.

"Actually I think he's just the only one of us with morals," Stan mutters with a sigh. "But he was acting a bit weird yesterday before you…talked to Christophe. Holy fuck, after you talked to that stupid French kid that was when he…what the fuck did you tell him?" This is it, this could either be a great moment where I totally out Kyle to his best friend and get back at him in the worst way possible. For something that I'm now, despite my outbursts, kind of doubting the Jew even did.

"It's between him and 'Tophe," I tell him shortly. It's not, it's not between them at all. Which means I'm lying. Which means I get a _release _and I'm not making this any worse for anyone. My motive might be selfish, but the outcome is selfless. Stan accepts what I have to say and seems to decide it's better to leave me alone for the few remaining minutes of lunch.

I just sit there until I hear the bell at which point a few people come into the bathroom and give me odd looks. I guess I can understand, I am sitting on the floor of the bathroom, staring blankly at the stalls in front of me. I probably look like some creepy fag who has some sort of bathroom fetish. Since I'm not up to risking what feeble reputation I have, I decide I should head to class early. After, of course, showing everyone my favorite finger. Yeah, chances are, if I do have a reputation, it's not a very good one.

* * *

I should probably apologize to Kyle. Considering I'm sitting next to him right now. We're reading Othello, still, but we sound angry about it. I don't even know what's going on in the play or who's part I'm playing. I'm sure it's the villain though, as always. Some douche named Iago. I bet he dies in the end and everyone is happy about it. I hate that about tragedies, everyone ends up dying at some point. What's the point in reading something like that?

"Will you hear me, Rod-Roderigo?" I say, questioningly, pretty sure I've just said the name wrong.

Kyle ignores this fact, even though he would usually help me with something like this. I'm not the best at long, complicated words. Once I get them down, I get them, but the first time I try to read them, it's hopeless. "'Faith, I have heard too much," he says, through clenched teeth. Jesus, at least I'm being civil to him. "For your words and performances are no kin to each other."

"You charge me most unjustly," I retaliate, just as angry this time.

"Well, maybe," he says, "you jumped to conclusions you shouldn't have."

"Or maybe I just know you too well," I cry. We're practically yelling now and I look away from him to see that majority of the class is watching with unrestrained interest, blatantly waiting for Kyle to reply. Even our teacher looks mildly curiosity at the situation. Only in South Park would your Shakespeare teacher watch a fight, rather than break it up. "Or maybe I don't know you at all."

That was dramatic. I said it more to the whole class than I did to the Jew sitting next to me. A few girls sigh, probably thinking we're having some sort of lovers spat. Wendy looks ready to wring my neck. I swear I hear Gregory 'tsktsk' at us from underneath his volumized bangs. But I don't stay long enough to listen. I grab the hallway pass and storm out into the hallway, throw the pass into a locker near the stairs and then sit there, next to the locker I just dented, fuming.

Today is bad. For some reason today I can't keep control of anything. There's no balance, there's no equilibrium. I'm just this explosion of emotions that I can't keep in check and I can't, for the life of me, understand why that is. What is today missing? What makes today different than every other day. I came to school, so far I've gone to all my classes. I skipped lunch, sure, but – I skipped lunch. I don't usually eat lunch; I usually get a few cigarettes from Christophe. But I don't do that everyday, that's not a big deal. I didn't see Tweek. I skipped lunch yesterday, but I saw Tweek right after, talked to him for a few minutes by his locker.

But _today_? I haven't talked to Tweek once. That doesn't mean anything, though. There must be some other factor I'm not considering. Something, anything, that is affecting me. Not Tweek. I'm not – no matter what some bitchy Miss Something counselor tells me – addicted to him. I don't need him or crave him or anything like that. I clutch at my hat, grab some of my hair in the process, remind myself of a certain blond-haired twitchy best friend I have.

I close my eyes and bite my lip, trying to force myself to think of something else. But I _can't_. Whether it's about him or about not wanting to think about him, it's like he's the only thing that exists anymore. What the fuck is wrong with me? I know he's my best friend. I know I care about him. I know that's normal. But this isn't normal. I find myself wondering – does Kyle think about Stan this much?

Actually, I should ask him. Since he's sitting next to me now. He doesn't look at me, just stares at the lockers across from us. "The teacher asked me to come find you," he says, quietly. I realize we're in the hallway while classes are going on, so even if we want to fight, it's not going to happen. Kyle is still angry, I can tell, or at the very least he's frustrated with me.

"I'm sorry, Kyle," I mumble, keeping my eyes on the floor. "I told 'Tophe."

"I know," he says. I'm surprised by how soft his tone is and I look at him and feel absolutely _terrible_. I see what Stan means. Kyle isn't Kyle right now, he looks tired and angry and sad at the same time. Like he doesn't know how to feel about all of this. I never really meant for him to feel like that. I just wanted to get back at him, but maybe I took it a bit too far. No, I definitely did.

"Did you – oh, Jesus, you didn't tell the counselor I was smoking, did you?" I ask, quietly, looking straight ahead at the lockers. Some of them have graffiti on them, about who loves who forever, when they broke up a few weeks ago. About how stupid Jews are, a testament from our favorite, and only, anti-Semitic. Who sucks balls, figuratively and literally. Rumors, secrets, everything is written somewhere in school.

No wonder we all hate each other.

"No," he says, "but I kind of helped." I look at him again, confused. "I told Cartman where you were, by accident, I swear." I groan and go back to clutching my hair. Out of everyone in our group, Cartman is the only one who doesn't know I smoke. And believe me, it's for good reason. Cartman and I get along, or at least we pretend to. But if either one of us finds out something bad about the other it's free use to use against them. Which means Kyle, whether he meant to or not, is sort of at fault here. "It just kind of slipped out, he asked where you were after lunch, we have class together, and I just kind of told him."

"Would it work if I said I just kind of _told _Christophe what you told me?" I ask tentatively.

He sighs. I sigh. We both fucked up here. I think we can both admit that to each other, but we don't, because we both know what happened and we're both too stubborn to admit it. So we go back to class, finish the scene in civil tones and ignore the people staring at us. Well, Kyle ignores them. By now, you probably know what I do.

* * *

I've decided to test this theory. Since I've been so messed up today, all day long, sixth hour should change nothing. I should walk into class, still feel angry, upset, confused, out of my mind with worry about everything. I do, for a few minutes, I change into the gym uniform, go sit on the hardwood floor with Clyde and Token, waiting for 'life coach' to show up from whatever circle of Hell he takes his breaks in.

Then Tweek walks in. I've never paid attention to it before, I think. It's always just kind of been like: Tweek makes me happy. Of course he does, he's my best friend. But now it's something more than that. It's like the sight of him just calms me down, immediately I feel better and he hasn't even said anything. He smiled at me, twitches a little bit as he sits next to me, and I melt.

Never, ever, ever, do I 'melt.' As much as I might act like I'm some sort of amazingly experienced person in the ways of love, I'm not at all. In fact, I might kind of be a slut. At least, compared to everyone else in our class. It's been accepted for a while that I'll flirt with anyone as long as I benefit. As far as relationships go, they're few and far between and all heterosexual. But I'm not above being a tease with everyone. Love, though? I've never come close to that. Crashed and burned, but never melted. Now it does though, now I do.

As usual we both lay down when 'life coach' starts today's speech. Most of the time I'm half listening to the man, but today I'm not, today I just lay there and think. Today I have the urge to reach out and feel Tweek's hand in my own, not just hold it, but feel him squeeze my hand, reassuring me that he needs me as much as I need him. Because, fuck, do I need him. He's what keeps me in balance.

We run laps in silence. Somehow everyone seems to know that I don't want anyone but Tweek around. Even Kenny who still has something urgent to tell me is staying out of our way. We do our little running-jog thing. I have to slow down every few minutes, because I'm getting these small bursts of energy, oddly enough, whenever Tweek's hand accidentally brushes against mine. It's like my heart speeds up for a second and I'm on top of the world.

I can do anything when Tweek is right next to me.

Once I realize that, I can feel things changing. It's like, with him right there, I don't have any other urges. There's no need to lie or flip someone off, and I only feel the faint craving for nicotine. I don't need it at all, I just need him. Because he's – my best friend, I remind myself. For some reason, that makes me frown. It shouldn't. Because best friends means you put that person before anyone else. They're the best. Out of everyone. That should satisfy me.

It doesn't though. Best friends just seems too simple. I grin to myself a bit when I remember how Stan and Kyle are 'super best friends' and then quickly frown when I think of how Kyle feels about Stan. I don't want to be like that, ever. Wanting the one person you can't have. That must be a miserable existence. But this isn't the same, this isn't the same at all, I think to myself, stealing a quick glance at Tweek.

He's looking at me, he smiles nervously, I blush and manage a quick half-smile back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, sounding concerned. "Oh, God! You're sick aren't you? Gah, did I get you sick? I was sick a week ago; this is all my fault, isn't it?" He looks so worried about me, like I'm going to drop dead any second and, more importantly, like if I did he wouldn't know what to do with himself. This is normal Tweek, but the way he's acting is effecting me so differently now.

"No, I'm not sick, Tweek, just really tired," I say. It's the truth, really, I need to sleep more. It's not really a lie, because right now I can't even consider lying to Tweek.

I may need Tweek. I may want to be near him. Hell, I might even be addicted to him for all I know. But if there's one thing I know, I am not like Kyle. I am not falling for my best friend. I don't love him – not in that way at least. He's just Tweek, my caffeine-addicted, twitching, blond, best friend who can't button his shirts up right to save his life and who always looks so fucking adorable. Jesus Christ, I need to stop just letting my thoughts run like that. I end up realizing things I wish I could take back.

I'm kind of scared this is how it's going to be from now on. Me, not knowing how to feel about Tweek, or at least not wanting to admit anything. Feeling awkward around my best friend. I really don't need that, especially if you take into consideration the fact that, well, I don't feel awkward around anyone. I'm pretty open with who I am, unapologetic about it, you could say. If someone has a problem with it, I don't really care. Unless they're Tweek.

Whatever you want to say about me is fine. Put me down, tear me to pieces, throw insults in my face, but it's doubtful you'll hurt me. But, Tweek…I know he never would. I know he never would really put me down. Until I give him a reason too. I don't disappoint him, I don't let him see me being weak, I don't let him know that there are completely terrible parts to my personality. I'm sure he sees it when I'm around other people, but when it's just me and Tweek, I don't let those sides show. The real problem I think is that who I am around Tweek isn't really who I am.

No one would call me a nice person or a good person or anything in-between. I'm nice, I care about people, I even help people out. But that's only a very small amount of the time. I could be a good person if I wanted to, but I don't. I'm always going to be that bad guy, the rival, the one jerk that everyone tolerates. I'm not like Cartman, no, Cartman's on a whole different level than I am. No one likes Cartman. But, see, that's what makes me worse. I somehow keep these friends I treat like shit.

Except for Tweek. I don't give a fuck about anyone but Tweek. Sure, I want to keep my friends, but I have the feeling that I could be okay without them, if they all decide I wasn't worth their time anymore. It wouldn't be great, it wouldn't make me happy, still I'm pretty sure I could deal with it. But, Tweek? I can't feel awkward around him, I can't lose him because I'm a jerk, I just _can't_. It's not a matter of life and death.

It's more of a matter of sanity, of balance, of keeping things how they should be.

I let out a loud sigh and Tweek looks at me again, concern etched obviously on his face. The bell rings, we can hear it at the track. Everyone stops running and we fall into little groups as we make our way back into the gym and then into the locker room. Token and Clyde are talking about some sort of serial killer that's apparently working his way through Nebraska, Tweek is freaking out because apparently the serial killer has a thing for blonds. Normally I would calm him down, but I'm having a hard time keeping my mind focused on anything.

Just basic movements are functioning right now. Gym shirt off, button up other shirt, shorts off, jeans on, zip, button, sigh. No one pays any attention to me, because Cartman is complaining about how Kyle tripped him while we were running. I think we're all secretly rolling our eyes at the entire situation. The whole fatass vs. Jew thing got a little old by the time we hit middle school, but none of us have the heart to tell them that we'd rather they just shut up.

"Hey, are you alright, Craig?" Clyde asks from across the locker room. He practically yells at me, so suddenly all attention is on me, completely caught off-guard, pulling my hat over my raven hair, mouth half-open, staring dreamily ahead of myself. "You look, like, sick or something."

"Yeah, Jesus, Craig, your face is all red," Stan points out.

I want to retaliate, tell him it's just because – because what? It's not embarrassment, it's because it's so damn hot in this stupid locker room, and everyone is looking at me, and it's so crowded and stuffy and uncomfortable. But instead of telling everyone that, I just let out an angered growl, flip everyone off and then push through Stan and Kyle, making my way into the hallway outside of the locker rooms. I don't know why I'm so angry or if I even have a right to be, but unleashing that on all of them made me feel so much better.

Sometimes I just want to know what the fuck is wrong with me. Why do I do the things I do? No one else acts like me. Everyone else lets themselves be happy once and a while, everyone else has normal ways to make themselves feel better. But I can't do anything normal, can I? I have to make everything difficult. Always have and probably always will. But I don't _want _to. How am I supposed to function in the real world like this?

I don't think I can. Not like this.

"Craig." I look up to see Tweek looking at me. Always, it's always Tweek. He's the only one who really cares about me, the only one who looks out for me. Everyone else thinks I can fend for myself. Tweek know better, as much of a spaz as he may be. He knows that I have weaknesses that I'm begging for people to notice. I open my mouth, ready to say something to the boy in front of me, Tweek, the one who means everything.

But Kenny McCormick wants to talk to me. And when Kenny wants to talk to you, you can only avoid him so long. I've avoided him all day, but he catches up with me now, sly smile on his face, scooting in-between me and Tweek, throwing an arm around my shoulder. "Hello, Craigy boy," he says in a sickeningly singsong voice, his hot breath right against my cheek. "Mind if I steal him away?" Kenny directs this at Tweek, but barely waits for a response before he's dragging me down the hallway.

"We have so much to talk about," he tells me. I don't answer, just turn around as we round a corner, seeing the sad look on Tweek's face, I can't help but feel the same way.

**A/N**: Ack. This chapter is short. You don't need to tell me what I already know. I'm sorry. Don't be too mad at me? I promise, the next chapter will be longer, especially if you review. Well, also considering, if you don't review who even knows if there will be another chapter… Also, fuck yes, Kenny isn't a slut. Or at least, not as much as he usually seems to be in fics. I believe in slutty Kenny, but I also believe in I-like-sex-but-I-don't-have-it-all-the-time Kenny. So I made Craig a bit of a slut. I think it works for him.  
I know I promised Kenny and Butters in this chapter, but believe me, it's all better left for the next one, and oh, they will be in there a lot.  
Now review, please, my lovely readers. Let me know what you think.  
Until next time, tweekers


	4. And I Can't Fall Asleep In It

**Addict**

**A/N**: I seriously love you guys, I never expected this story to get the number of reviews it's getting. It makes my day better to get reviews, so I've been happy recently, haha. I have to warn you before this chapter starts, things aren't getting any better. I should probably make the second genre of this angst…  
You know what I haven't mentioned yet and now feel like the biggest douche in the universe for? (Move over John Edward) The titles for the chapters. The first two are from the Queen song 'Don't Stop Me Now' and this and the last chapter's are from 'Millstone' by Brand New. And, contrary to what you might believe, I'm not Freddie Mercury or Jesse Lacey.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings and Pairings**: You know these by now, kids, no need to reiterate.

**Chapter Four**: And I Can't Fall Asleep In It

"I'm not talking about sex with you," I let Kenny know.

"We're not talking about sex," he tells me with a sly smirk. "I mean, if you were getting _any_ at all, that might be the subject here, but you aren't, so it isn't. And vice versa, if you really think about it, since, well, we won't get into your lack of sexual appeal because then we would be verging into territory we shouldn't be, and God knows neither one of us is one to break the rules. No, Craig, you don't have to worry about talking about sex with me."

Do you see what I mean about Kenny? Jesus, it's like the boy has built up this persona. This ultra-confident, egotistical, self-assured person who isn't the real him. Or maybe it is. That's why it's so confusing. I don't know who the hell Kenny is. He's definitely not the same kid I remember in elementary school, or middle school, for that matter.

It was in eighth, I think, the last time Kenny died. I don't really remember. That's when Butters said he died last, and we all trust him with stuff like that. When middle school started and we all drifted apart, those two stayed together. Why? Don't ask me, really, don't. Out of all of us I would have thought that those two would be the least likely to stay close. Or rather, in their case, become close. Every time Kenny died Butters was the only one who mourned.

The rest of us were accustomed with it. In elementary school it wasn't a normal week if Kenny didn't die at some point. But for Butters when Kenny, the first real friend he had, died, even though he would inevitably come back the next day, it was the end of the world. In eighth grade Kenny died at some point. Spring I think. Yeah, it was spring, because we were playing baseball in Physical Education when it happened and I remember Kyle throwing his bat to the ground and calling someone a bastard.

Ever since then Kenny's been easily excitable. Even through that confident attitude he shoves in your face. You can tell by his blue eyes, just one look at them, that he's always worried. I would think it's because he's worried about dying. But I have the feeling it's something else. I think he's more worried about what him dying could do to other people – namely Butters. Because, if they were friends in middle school, they must be something more than that now. It's confusing, because you would think they're best friends, but that spot is filled by Cartman.

I overanalyze things.

I sigh; I need a cigarette, and by some luck I have one from a few days ago and I light it. We're by the basketball court, the one we used to play on as kids. Kenny takes a detour and I follow. There's a group of kids playing on the court. I recognize one of them to be Kyle's younger brother, whose name I can never remember, but whose face is easily recognizable. I glare. Stupid Canadians. Kenny sits down on a bench, so I do too. We watch them play basketball until it begins to feel a little creepy.

"So, what is it?" I asked, resignedly. Once Kenny has you, you're trapped, you're going to listen to what he says whether you like it or not. I know I won't like it. I instinctively tap my cigarette, the ashes fall down like burning embers to the blacktop. Kenny watches them with his eyes. I'm so extremely jealous of his eyes. We both have blue eyes. But Kenny's – shit, man, they're hypnotizing. He's about a million times more attractive than me in every way. Needless to say, it annoys the fuck out of me.

"Mm," he says, looking up at the sky. The same color as his eyes – cerulean. I think he's trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say. "Tweek's your best friend, right?"

"Yeah," I say, less naturally than I used to answer that question, but still assertive.

"But you want something more than that," he says, matter-of-factly, like its common knowledge or even a fact. It's not a fact, it's a stupid assumption he's come to in that sick, twisted mind of his and he has absolutely no proof behind it at all. But he sounds so confident as he keeps his eyes on the blue sky up above. "It's pretty obvious, to be honest. I think we all know, we just don't admit it to each other. It's unsaid, but it's well-known. You know it too, Craig, but you're not just keeping it from us. Oh, no."

He turns to look at me now, so fucking perceptive as he is, and says, "You're keeping it from yourself too."

"You're wrong," I tell him, looking away from that intense gaze Kenny as. "I mean, I love Tweek, I do. I'm not afraid to admit that. We've been best friends since we were nine. We're not Stan and Kyle or anything, but we're pretty damn close. We share everything; we _know _everything about each other. I look out for him and he does the same for me. It's that simple, nothing more; don't make it out to be something it's not, Kenny."

"But, dude, _come on_," Kenny says, imploring me with his eyes. "Think about it. I know you don't want to admit it. But just think about it for a second. You never stay in relationships, ever. The only people that you've ever been remotely close to, besides Tweek are Token and Clyde and well…and Thomas, but let's not get into that." At the third name I immediately tense up, because those are memories I never want to think about again. "There's something between you two, I just know it."

"What would you know?" I reply scathingly. "Jesus, Kenny, you're always giving out this sort of advice, but you never take it for yourself. Obviously you, fine, you do know shit about relationships and I'm not saying that means you're right, but if you're such a genius with all this shit, then why are you single all the time? You know, as well as the rest of us, that you're…"

"Fucking hot?" Kenny says with a snort. "So I've been told by practically every girl I've ever met. But who gives a fuck? If they're that shallow, and I know they are, I don't want anything to do with them. Besides that, the only person I've ever really…wanted, I guess, is definitely out of reach, and I'm not getting them any time soon."

"What happened to that whole 'never give up' shit you spewed at Stan about Wendy?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, since when does the Preacher listen to his own sermons?" Kenny points out. "Anyway, that was a nice detour, but don't think you're getting me off topic that easily. Topic being, you can't ignore your feelings. Doing that doesn't make them go away." I take a long drag of my cigarette and glare at him, mentally flipping him off. "I don't care if it's right now or later, you're going to have to eventually do something about this."

"Why?" I ask, angrily. "Even if I do – but I don't – like Tweek that way, he's straight. We all know my sexual preferences fall under undecided, but his are constantly and consistently, forever and always, straight as a fucking board." My cigarette is nearly gone, but I'm not in the mood for it anyway, I throw it down to the ground and stomp on it, unleashing my fury on the inanimate object.

Kenny seems to actually consider this. Chances are, he hasn't thought of this yet. Kenny is completely convinced every one of us, here on this beautiful planet we call Earth, is bisexual until proven otherwise. "Well, normally, I'd say you don't know that," he admits, "but yeah, Tweek's straight, pretty much. With one exception." He holds up one gloved finger and practically glows as he pokes my chest. "You."

"No," I breathe, fervently, but quietly.

"Yeah, Craig, he likes you, I know he does, he wears his emotions on his sleeves, actually, I think he just wears his emotions, period," Kenny says, thoughtfully, leaning back to look back up at the sky. "I mean, seriously, you two are practically written in the stars. It's perfect, you're meant for each other. Do you know how hard that is to watch? Two people who are meant for each other just…throwing that away? Honestly, this is so easy for you two. You have the ability to be happy with him, why are you running away from it?"

"Because, for the millionth time, there's nothing between us," I tell him, exasperated. I knew Kenny was hard to shake off, I knew he would insist things until your head exploded from denying them, but I never imagined he would act like this. Usually he lets things go after a little bit. He's easygoing like that. Sure, he'll act like a smug bitch who knows something you don't, but by now he should have given up with the whole you're-gay-for-Tweek thing. It's preposterous.

"Oh, right, just like there's 'nothing between' Kyle and Christophe," the blond says, rolling his eyes as he says their names.

"What?" I cry, honestly and completely shocked.

"Yeah, that's been going on for, what, four months now?" he says. "August, September…yeah, four months. I can't believe no one else has noticed it. I called it when Christophe transferred in tenth grade, for Satan's sake. Too bad Kyle's got it bad for Stan now. Now that Christophe knows, him and Jewboy are totally falling apart and Kyle doesn't know how to tell Stan, obviously, because how would Stan react to hearing all that at once?"

"How in the fuck do you know all of that?" I ask in one breath, awed.

"I know everything, about everyone," he responds, simply. "Don't forget that, Craig."

I sigh, close my eyes, tight and lean forward. "The thing about Tweek," I say slowly, keeping my eyes glued to the blacktop, "is that…even if we did…and he…and I both…I would ruin it. I would hurt him. You and I both know I would. I'm not a good person, Kenny. I'd lie to him, I'd get pissed at him and hurt him and things would end badly and I just – I can't hurt him like that."

"You have a point," Kenny says, with a small shrug. "The thing is, anyone can hurt anyone. That's what relationships are. Trusting the other person to not hurt you and trusting yourself not to hurt them. So you've come to a crossroads, Craig, so fucking what? Everyone has to make this choice. Either you risk it or you abandon all hope immediately. You've just been sitting here, doing nothing. Well, now you have to make a choice. Do something or continue doing nothing. What's it going to be?"

* * *

I choose neither. I choose _worse_. I don't tell Kenny what I'm going to do though, because just the thought of it is killing me. I barely sleep and what sleep I do get is plagues with dreams where I mess everything up, where Tweek is left, broken to pieces, where I try and find Kenny to ask him what to do, but he doesn't hear me because he has his hood up again and Butters is crying because Kenny's _dead_. When I wake up I can't stop thinking about it, what I'm going to do, not just to Tweek but to all of them. I'm such a terrible person; I don't think I deserve any of them.

My mom makes breakfast, but I just stare at it in the morning. My little sister, Millie, pulls on my hat, my sleeve, my hair, asking me what's wrong, but I don't answer her. I just stay silent and stare at the food in front of me. My mom glares at me as I get up from the table and walk away. I don't turn around, but I know she's given me the finger, because that's how my family works. We're just a cycle of bad feelings and rudeness. Maybe I was brought up to ruin everything.

I wait for the bus in complete silence. I don't think I even breathe. It's like I'm immersed underwater but not making any fight to surface, just giving myself up complete to the mercy of the water that surrounds me, letting my lungs gasp for air, but getting some sick pleasure out of denying them what they so desperately need. The bus pulls up to my stop. I get on, I avoid everyone's eyes, and I walk right past them all.

It's just my luck – ha, like I have any – that Gregory isn't here today. I sit next to Christophe. He looks at me, wary, hurt, I can tell. What Kenny said was definitely true, because the French boy looks troubled, hurt, like he'll never be the same any more. Yeah? I want to tell him. Think you have it hard? I could tell him why I've got it worse. At least he had time with Kyle.

Because I've given it all up. I'm going back to the old days, in middle school, back to hanging out with the Foreign Kids. It works like this. I can't hurt Tweek, but I can't get over him with him being right near me every second, either. And we're a group, all eight of us. We eat lunch together, we go places together. I sleepover with some of them, goddammit. I can't be close to anyone, because then I have to be close to all of them, and then I have to be close to Tweek and I'm right back to where I started.

So here I am, here I'll sit, and here I'll get over it. Eventually I can go back, eventually I can see them again if they'll take me back and eventually we'll all get over it. I can explain it to all of them. Kenny knows what's going on, he gets it by now. Maybe he'll tell some of them what a pussy I am, for deserting them all just to avoid getting hurt. But this isn't about me, not in the least. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I never want to disappoint Tweek, and if I ever hurt him I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

I'll avoid them, do everything I can to prevent that from happening. Even though it hurts, more than you can know, to do this. No one will ever understand this, no matter how long I spend explaining it to them. It's this intense feeling, like hurting Tweek would be the end of the world, the proverbial Apocalypse, if you will. Maybe what I'm doing is stupid. Maybe I'll look back on this and ask myself why I ever thought it was a good idea. But right now?

Right now I'll just sit next to Christophe while we both pity ourselves and the choices we have to make.

* * *

"Cigarette?" he offers, a few hours later, out back during lunch.

I take one wordlessly, lean closer as he lights it for me and then I inhale deeply, enjoying the feeling of the toxins in my lungs and then letting all the smoke out, watching it filter, swirling and twirling in intricate patterns, up into the early afternoon sky. Tainting the bright blue with its deep gray. Neither one of us says anything for a moment as we sit, side by side, staring blankly ahead. Damien and Pip have apparently decide not to curse, er, _grant _us with their ever-growing one-person appearance.

I can't say I'm too upset about that fact.

"Where iz your blond, twitchy friend? Does 'e not 'old your interest as 'e used to?" Christophe finally asks. I look over at him. He's not smoking, but his cigarette is lit. He's using it to burn marks into those stupid, fingerless gloves he wears. Maybe in France they're all the rage, but he's the only one wearing them here. They're not practical in the least. But, who am I talk; I was the first one to sit in the snow.

"He's not my friend anymore," I say through gritted teeth, tensing at the mere mention of him. I don't know whether that last statement was true or not. If it was a lie, I could at least feel somewhat content telling it, but instead I have no idea how to feel. By now I haven't turned up at lunch for the third day in a row, and Kenny…well he knows what I'm doing. He'll have figured it out by now. But will he tell them?

"Ah, I see," Christophe says. He's moved on to the sleeves of his dirty, black shirt and actually succeeds burning all the way through the thin material. I watch, bored. "Zat iz odd, non? You two always seemed to be togezer, like et was, well, meant to be, I suppose you could say. Were you not best friends wiz 'im?" He says 'best friends' in the most hateful way you can imagine.

"Not. Any. More," I say, stabbing my cigarette into the snow with each word and leaving it there after I'm done speaking.

Christophe looks at me and I mean really _looks _at me. Not like you normally look at a person. He has this way of looking at you and seeing right through you. I don't mean that ignoring thing most girls do, not like I don't exist. More like everything you're trying to hide is hidden right behind you and he just uses X-ray vision to find out what you're hiding from him. Yeah, that's Christophe alright, a regular Superman.

"Not any more as Kyle and I are not any more," he says after a moment of silence, decidedly. He takes the cigarette and throws it a few feet in front of us.

"Well, not really," I tell him. Of course I'm avoiding his eyes, I avoid everyone's eyes. I don't want them to see what feelings are in my own or, worse yet, the pity I know is in their eyes. "I don't want to hurt him. I know I will, I'm a fucking dick. There's no question about it, we would end badly. And I'm just not up to hurting him, you know? I have to kind of get over him and I can't do that when I'm constantly around him."

"So you do not tell any of zem?" he questions. "Et iz only my opinion, I know zat what I say will not 'ave any effect on you, but zat seems a bit foolish to me. Now zey are all are not going to understand. Especially ze twitchy one. If you two were as close as I believe you were, zen zis will not end well for 'im in zis way either. But, et iz your choice, not mine, as I 'ave said, you are ze only one who can make zis decision."

"Will everyone stop telling me how this is my choice?" I cry out of frustration, leaning forward so my head is resting on my knees, so I can let the emotions flood my eyes without him seeing. "I don't want to do this, but none of them would understand. It's better that they don't know. I don't want them to know, especially not Tweek. If any of them knew I would never get over it. And I _have _to get over it, 'Tophe, there's no other way. As bad as this might end, that would be worse. Whether we got together or not. If Tweek doesn't feel the same way, he'll freak out about it and then there's no chance we'll be friends. If I hurt Tweek I'll never forgive myself."

"I understand," he responds, with a small sigh. I look up and see it instantly, the pain that fills his eyes. "I know, et iz like, wizout zem, you feel lost, but ze fear of 'urting zem, of et ending badly, zat iz a million times more painful, iz et not? You care about zem so much zat the very idea of zat 'appening iz enough to forfeit your own 'appiness to benefit zeir own. All because you love zem."

"I don't love him, not that way," I protest, weakly. Christophe just looks at me, knowingly.

"You can keep telling yourself zat," he says, quietly, eyes averting to the snowy ground, "but trust me when I say, et does not 'elp very much."

"I know about you and Kyle," I blurt out, blushing as he looks at me now. "I mean, I didn't know when I told you about…what I told you about. I just – Kyle told me and I thought he did something that he didn't. But, I just did the one thing I thought would hurt him." I'm playing with the long sleeves of my shirt, trying to not let my face grow any redder. "And I'm sorry, 'Tophe, that I was the one who told you. I really am."

"Do not worry about et," he says softly, putting a hand on my shoulder. His eyes are kind, and I know he means what he says, but it hurts him, I know it does, more than he'll ever admit. Because, fuck, Christophe is stronger than I am, than any of us are, and he'll get through this, I know he will. "I believe zat et was only a matter of time, before somezing 'appened. Per'aps we were not meant to be, or, more likely, I am destined to be alone, but zere is no reason to apologize, Nommel, for et is better zat I found out from a friend zen from someone who I did not trust."

When he calls me his friend I'm slightly shocked. Never before has he called me his friend. All through middle school when we hung out every day, we weren't friends. Even after I went to his house a few times and got thrown out by his mother every single time. I still wasn't his friend. But now he says I am, and I believe him. Right now I'm pretty sure he's the only friend I have, anyway.

To be honest, that's a little scary. Because I'm only friends with half of him.

The bell rings and we stand up. My pants are a bit damp from the snow, but I don't really mind, because he doesn't seem to mind either. We walk back into school together and I'm immediately scared. I didn't talk much through my first three classes, but everyone seemed to just think I was tired, and I am, I'm exhausted, but by now they must have figured out that I'm avoiding them all.

I must be walking too close to Christophe, because he kind of nudges me out of my little freak-out with his elbow and gives me a look. I somehow manage a pathetic smile to him and he snorts a little French laugh at me as we reach his locker and he spins the dial between his gloved fingers. My heart is pounding in my chest as I see Tweek along with Token and Clyde walking down the hall.

"Uh, uh, 'Tophe," I say, softly, my voice much too high for my liking.

He looks up at me from his Math book, looks at my face, then down the hallway and spots them. It's like he can read my mind. I think that's why he does what he does, at least, reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Laugh," he demands, working up what I guess you could call a smile on his face. I cock my head, looking at him questioningly. "Just laugh, so zat zey don't see you looking like a pussy! Jesus, Nommel."

And so I laugh, not loud and fake, but normally, convincing, a lie without saying any words. Christophe doesn't laugh with me, but he gives me a smile and pats me on the shoulder. By the time he's turned back to his math book and I'm done laughing the three people I'm trying to avoid are gone. They've gotten the message by now. They just don't understand why it's being sent. My heart isn't pounding any more, it's pitifully broken.

"Skip sixth hour with me," I tell him.

"Why?" he says, warily, as he shuts his locker door.

"They're all in my class," I whine, well aware of how dismal I sound. "Please, 'Tophe?"

I know I have him when he flushes at the nickname. "Well, all I 'ave zen is Shop anyway. I do not even think ze teacher takes attendance. I suppose we will be skipping tomorrow, zen as well?"

"Zere iz a very 'igh possibility, oui," I say, mimicking his accent. He growls at me and hits my arm with his math book. Still, as we part ways I can't help to feel a little content with this situation. Christophe is a far cry from a replacement for any of my friends. But, really, he's the only one I've got. And while he might not be amazing and wonderful and simply peachy keen, he'll have to do for now.

* * *

"Love iz sheet," Christophe says. It's Friday, the third day in a row that we've skipped sixth hour together. We're in the park, sitting on one of the benches, watching old women with their dogs walk by and little kids play in the snow. A couple of people give us odd looks, but no one really bothers to say anything. By the third day we've realized that there's no point in trying to hide the fact that we're skipping.

In South Park, no one really cares.

"You can say that again," I agree with a nod, flipping off an elderly lady who stares at us for a few seconds more than she should.

"Not only," the French boy continues, "is _love _sheet. Everyzing zat comes along wiz it is sheet too. Because, I would 'ave to naturally assume, most love et iz unrequited, non? And, if zat iz so, zen only one person gets ze feelings of love, and zat iz never a good zing. No matter 'ow wonderful et iz to see ze person zat you love, if zey do not return your feelings zere is a certain emptiness. And _zat _is complete sheet."

"Fucking seriously, dude," I say, nodding again. "Who wants to feel like that all the time? And then if you even get together with them, it lasts, what, a few months." Christophe rolls his eyes and nods. "What the fuck is that? A few months of happiness and then it's all over with just a few words? It's fucked up. Even married people, they just end up hating each other or getting divorced."

"Everyone 'as a soulmate," Christophe says, morbidly. "But what use iz zat when zere are billions of people in ze world?"

This is all we talk about. Christophe will be starting his God-is-a-faggot speech any second now. He's one of the most cynical people I've ever met and, believe it or not, it's that logic that's helping me through this. If I can believe the world is fucked up, then it's not just me. I'm not the bad guy here, the rest of the world is. We just sit wherever we feel like, today the park and yesterday the mall, the day before on the outskirts of town, and bitch about everything we think isn't fair. Mainly we talk about how fucked up and unfair love is.

Because it hurt both of us and we need to hear someone else agree, that we don't deserve this and it's not our fault. Even though, in my case, I think it is, and in his case, it's really no one's. We just like to hear that. It makes everything a little easier to bear. A little injection of anti-hope hopefulness into every day, that's what hanging around Christophe is for me. It's like this hope that there is no hope. Sort of like when people just decide they're going to die anyway so they might as well go out and start living life. Us? We just decided that love ends badly for everyone so why even bother with it.

"God just likes to play wiz our emotions," he growls. I knew it was coming. Now I can sit back and just listen while he rambles on, in some sort of '101 Reasons Why God Is A Cocksucker' list. It's relaxing in a weird way. "'e gives us ze ability to love someone but 'e also decides zat 'e can ruin it just like that." The French boy snaps his fingers in front of my face, causing me to jump slightly. He smiles that crooked, rare, half-smile of his. "And – ah, what do you want?"

I look away from Christophe to discover Clyde approaching us. School must have ended; time must have run by without us even taking notice. Christophe looks angry, almost protective of me, which is kind of surprising, I have to admit. Clyde just glares at him for a moment, and then turns to me. "Dude," he says, his voice harsh, "what…the _fuck _have you been doing the past few days?"

"This," I say, blandly. "What's it to you?"

"What's it – what the fuck do you mean, what's it to _me_?" Clyde says, his voice escalating in volume. "Fuck, Craig, do you even know – well of course you don't. Seeing as you've been spending your days simply attached to this fucker. Jesus Christ, haven't you even noticed what this is doing to Tweek?" I don't meet his eyes, I look away, my heart makes a tiny flutter in my chest when I hear his name.

"I don't care," I say, my voice barely audible.

Clyde laughs mirthlessly. "Sure you don't Craig," he says. "I don't know why you're doing what you're doing, but no one's happy about it. None of us are. Not only is Tweek freaking out about it, we're all losing a friend here. Even Cartman has looked a little less smug recently. I know Kenny talked to you and he won't say about what, but ever since then you're acting like none of us exist. Kyle said you requested to switch partners and now you're working with _Gregory_? Dude, you fucking hate him."

"Shut up!" I finally yell, standing up. I'd a few inches taller than Clyde, and he looks a bit surprised that I jump up and yell with such force, so he backs up a little bit, putting his hands up in defense. I echo his laugh of a few moments earlier. "Stop talking about what this is doing to all of you. Do you think that I like this? There's a reason I'm doing this. And it's none of your fucking business what is, Clyde! Make your own assumptions, try and figure it out, but don't accuse me of anything until you know it's the truth. I am _not _happy with what I'm doing right now, so don't think I am!"

"Then come back," Clyde says, his voice softening, his eyes looking sad. Just like him, exactly like him. Cold and harsh for a second or two and then reduced to looking like he's about to cry. It kills me, it really does, but I can't turn back now. I was getting close. I am getting close. I'm not over him yet, but I can do this if I have just a little while longer, I know I can. "You're _our _friend, Craig; nothing is going to change that. I just don't get why after all this time you choose _now _to desert us and for – for what…him?"

Now I get it. I see the look in Clyde's eyes. They've come to the conclusion that I chose Christophe over them. When that's not it at all. But when that's exactly what it must look like. I open my mouth to say something, but I have nothing to say, because I can't explain myself without having to explain what's really going on and I'm scared to tell Clyde. Because I'm lucky that Kenny's kept his mouth shut, but who knows how lucky I'll be with Clyde? So I do what I always do. I close up, harden, allow myself to get angry and flip him off.

To my surprise, Clyde doesn't get mad at me. I suppose I should have known. His eyes get wide, because he knows that wasn't just a frivolous thing. Not like usual. He knows that I meant it. But I didn't mean for him to get so upset. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Christophe, who has been watching to whole thing silently, pushes past me. "I suggest zat you leave 'im alone," he says. Not cold or harsh, but not kind either. Neutral and unfeeling. He looks back at me, then back to Clyde. "At least until 'e iz ready to talk to you, oui?"

Clyde sniffles and nods, gives me one last, forlorn look, and then he walks away, leaving me to sit down next to Christophe in this park full of people, feeling utterly alone.

* * *

It's the weekend and Christophe is grounded for calling God a faggot one too many times in front of his mother. "Et iz blasphemy!" he tells me over the phone. "I am only saying zat which I know to be true." I just laugh, because though he tries to joke about it and tell me I'll be fine this weekend I can't help but feel that I won't. I need people around me right now. And who else do I have?

"Goddammit," I mutter to myself as I stand on the porch of Butter Stotch's house.

We're not exactly friends, I muse, as I push the doorbell and hear the faint sound of it ringing from inside the house. We're not friends at all. But if there's one person who's completely forgiving and easy to talk to, it's Butters. And, for the life of me, I can't get angry at him, unless he naively doesn't understand something. Maybe it's desperation that's led me to his front door. Need for some comforting human contact.

The door is answered by his mother. "Hello," I say in a monotone, "is Butters home?"

"Why, yes," she says, plastering on a fake smile. "Would you like to come in?"

No, lady, I was just wondering if he was home so I could go back to mine and call him. I plaster on my own smile and push into the warm house past her. "I would _positively _love to," I say in a false, cheery voice, turning around to bat my eyelashes for her. She doesn't like me, I can tell. I'm going on the Kids Who Can't Ever Hang Out With My Son list. She's mentally memorizing my appearance. And next will come the fateful question.

"What's your name?" she asks, like she actually cares for reasons other than seeing if she knows my mom.

"Clyde Donovan," I say dryly. What can I say? Payback's a bitch. And so is Butter's mom.

"Oh, yes, I know your mother from the PTA," she says, the smile getting even more forced. I resist the urge to laugh in her face. She resists the urge to tell me to leave because my 'mom' is the kind of woman she hates. Clyde's mom is liberal. Not like Kyle's mom. Clyde's mom is more into woman's rights and she's constantly getting into fights, some of which I've witnessed, with her husband about it. Hence why they're constantly separated, then not, separated, then not and on until one or both of them die.

"She's a lovely woman," I say, slathering on the sarcasm.

"Indeed she is." We both smile at each other. "Well, Butters is upstairs in his room with his friend. The one with the orange parka. Normally I wouldn't allow them to be in his room alone but they're working on some sort of project." Oh, yeah, I can really see them working on a 'project' together. "Are you working on the same thing with them?" she asks, her smile twitching slightly.

"Oh, oh yeah," I say, nodding. Jesus, this smile is starting to hurt. How do people keep this up all the time? "We're, like, best friends, you know. We work on all our _projects _together." She nods and we smile for a few quiet seconds. "So I'm just going to go upstairs then. Now. Upstairs, to work on the, uh, the project." She nods again and I head towards the stairs, mind spinning.

Why didn't I just say I wasn't working on the project? I don't want to talk to Kenny _and _Butters. That's not the point here. The point is to get away from them. But I'm craving human contact; I'm craving real conversation, not just over the phone. I need to be face to face with someone. Right now I have no one else to go to, so this is the only option I have. The stairs take forever to walk up; each step I take is agonizingly drawn out. At least if it was just Butters I could get a little, stuttered welcome, but now I have no idea what to expect.

It's only when I get to the top of the stairs that I realize I have no idea which room is Butter's. But I would have to imagine it's the one with the drawing of an airplane on the door. There are two figures in the airplane, but I don't really give a fuck. I just push open the door and find Butters sitting on his bed and Kenny sitting on the floor, talking. They both stop whatever they're doing and look up at me.

"Oh, h-hey, Craig!" Butters says, predictably innocent. He's leaning over a poster board, gluing little pieces of paper onto it. What do you know; they really _are _working on a project. "Well, golly gee, what brings you here?"

"Yeah," Kenny says, "what _does _bring you here?" He's looking at me indifferently. I know he doesn't really care about what I did. He's not like Clyde, he doesn't sound angry or upset. He knows I made a choice and maybe he doesn't understand it, but he's obviously accepted it and moved on, he just wants to know why the fuck I'm in Butters' house right now.

"Dunno," I reply, easily, walking into the room and closing the door behind myself. "Told your mom I was working this project with you, but that was just a lie. So if she says something, just tell her I'm working on it." I sit against the edge of Butters' bed and look at the poster board. It's something about Picasso, and I remember they're in Art Appreciation together. Butters seems to be doing most of the work, but of course Kenny's getting credit for it.

"Oh no, I can't do that," Butters says, shocked at the very suggestion. "L-lyin' is – it's wrong. My dad says, he does, 'Butters, y-ya ever lie to us and we'll lock ya in the basement like we done when you were in fourth grade. A-an' we won't feed ya or nothin' at all.' You shouldn't ever lie to your parents, it's just plain wrong." After this little outburst he goes back to humming and gluing a printed out picture of a piece of art onto the poster board.

I look at Kenny in surprise. He shrugs, but has this small little amused smile on his face. And he's staring at Butters almost dreamily, I think, sort of appreciative, I guess. But of what? I can't imagine. They're such polar opposites, Butters and Kenny, but I guess that's sort of how these things work. Still I never would have thought…or maybe I'm reading way too much into this. Angry at myself, I flip off no one in particular.

"So, Craig, why've you been h-hangin' out with Christophe so much?" Butters says, biting his tongue, literally, as he makes sure the paper is aligned just right on the poster board.

"Oh, um, you noticed?" I asked, surprised that he even brought this up.

"W-well, yeah," Butters says, seriously, looking up at me. "Ya look real sad all the time now, an' so do all your friends. 'Specially Tweek." He frowns to himself and then cracks his knuckles together. "Y'all look so hurt, I can't help b-but notice, ya know? An', well, I don' mean nothin' hurtful by this, but no one really hang out with Christophe, ya know? He's always a-all alone. So I always notice when someone is with him, 'cause that seems to make him happy. But what good is that, w-when everyone else looks so sad?"

It's the innocence and honesty, I realize, as I stare at Butters in admiration. That's why Kenny likes Butters so much. He'll unabashedly tell you what's going on and you can't get angry at him because he's so innocently right. He might not mean to, but he gets right to the point. He's so right, so completely right that it's shocking. I look at Kenny again and there's that look, the one he doesn't give anyone but Butters. Kenny respects Butters more than the other blond will ever know. At least, until Kenny tells him, but I expect he will one day. Or at least, I hope he will.

"Hey, Craig?" Butters says tentatively.

"Uh, w-what, Butters?" I ask, still in a bit of a stupor.

"D'ya…d'ya think ya love him?" he asks. "T-Tweek, I mean."

"I don't love Tweek," I say suddenly, harshly, painfully. At the same time that it hurts, I feel a rush of relief flood into my head. Quick balance, the line I tread so perilously between falling apart and imploding from emotional overload comes back into view. I can once again think, breathe and walk easily. Everything is alright with the universe all because I just said that.

Lying always calms my nerves.

**A/N**: 'Ah, omg, what, oh no, Craig you're _such_ a bitch. Where the fuck is Tweek?' Things that went through my head while writing this and may have gone through yours while reading. Overwhelming lack of Tweek, _I know_. There's reason for this, obviously. Like, important part of the plotline reason, if you paid attention.  
Please note, my mommy is getting married and I'm moving and all this hectic stuff is happening next week, so updates _might _be slower than they have been. Although I'll be a lot more willing to make time to work on this story if you guys continue being the great reviewers you are. Go on, entice me update quicker, you know you want to.  
Also, any of you who have a Livejournal should add me. Message me if you want my username or just ask for it in your review and I'll reply with it.  
Until next time, tweekers


	5. Tonight Will Be The Night

**Addict**

**A/N**: I completely hate this chapter. Ugh.  
So I'm writing this chapter, right? Right. And I think I have it saved, so I go watch Law and Order at, like, six in the morning and fall asleep halfway through. Well, I wake up and somehow, someway, my laptop got shut down and it turns out, no, I never saved the chapter. So basically, I have a terrible temper and refused to write for a day and then felt really bad and wrote all of this on a coffee hype. Sorry in advance.  
Beginning of this is a _dream_, but it's short anyway. Thank you once again for all your reviews. Some of you leave these really long, epic, paragraphs and it makes me die with happy. Might I warn that things are slowly, but surely, getting fluffier? :D  
The title for this chapter comes from 'Fall For You' by Secondhand Serenade. I'm not…whoever that guy is.  
By the way I'm way too exhausted to edit this chapter right now, so if there are any mistakes, sorry. Dx  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings and Pairings**: You know these by now, kids, no need to reiterate.

**Chapter Five**: Tonight Will Be The Night

_"What are you doing?" I ask, reaching out to only feel the cool, glass of the mirror I'm looking into. The reflection smiles, smirks really, back at me. But it's _not _me, it never has been me. That person isn't me, no matter how much he's ingrained in people's minds. No matter how stubborn and unchanging he seems to be. He isn't me and I don't want to be him._

_The only logical solution seems to be to destroy the mirror that hangs on the wall of this empty room that is my mind. But that leads me to wonder. Which one of us is real? If I destroy him, will I destroy myself by default? But he's taunting me, he's angry and he wants attention and he flips me off and smirks at me around a cigarette. And I want to get angry back, I want to match my reflection and lash out and break the mirror by sheer force, whether it destroys me or not. _

_Until Tweek comes. Because with Tweek there, smiling at me, even as he twitches and shudders under my touch, everything is perfect. Everything melts. The mirror is gone, and I'm just me and Tweek is just Tweek and the only thing that matters is that we're together. That is, until Tweek melts too, the second I get to hold him in my arms. Why does he melt? I'm incapable of talking, incapable of saying anything and now I'm completely alone. _

_Alone, just as I belong, because without fail I hurt everyone I become close to. It's only a matter of time before I destroy myself. The mirror is right in front of me again. I'm back in the empty room. "Why are you doing this to me?" I ask him – me – him, close to tears as he sneers at me from inside his own world. I answer myself, I become him, because even if I don't want to be him, I _am _him. "You're doing this to yourself."_

_Everything fades._

* * *

I wake up, nearly jumping off of my bed. I remember the dream completely, but I know I dreamed more than that. There was something before and something after, but that short interlude is all my mind chooses to let me remember. I kind of wish I didn't remember it, because it's going to end up plaguing me all day, infecting every corner of my mind with its vile truth.

It's early in the morning, it's Sunday, and right now I should be at church. Actually, as I walk into the kitchen and see the clock on the oven, I realize my parents must have just left.They didn't even bother to wake me up. Yesterday when I came home from Butters' house I skipped dinner, which is essentially something I've only ever done one other time, and retreated to my room for the rest of the night.

There's a note on the counter, in my mom's angry, scribbled handwriting, the left corner of it is stuck under the coffee-maker. I think God is playing cruel jokes on me these days. Maybe Jesus is even in on it. The note is a bunch of bullshit about how they're worried about me and they're going over to the Donovan's house after church and should be back around noon. I tear the note into neat little pieces until it's practically confetti in my hands and then throw it all up into the air, turning on my heel and heading for the bathroom.

I hate that awkward moment in time while you wait for the water of the shower to adjust. Usually I like the water burning hot, scalding. To the point where most people would would whine and complain about water pressure and whatever the fuck else they blame for it. I love it, but I hate waiting for the water to reach the temperature I want. What ensues is me flipping off nothing in particular, just the entire shower in general and glowering at it.

Most people take off their clothes to take a shower and, for the most part I'm part of that group. But today is a little bit different, I'm a little bit out of it, a little bit fed up with living inside society's norm. So when I feel the water and it stings my skin, I simply step in. Boxers, sweatshirt, hat and all. I just let the steaming water pour over me and before I know it, I'm crying. Let's get one thing straight. I don't cry. Well, obviously I do, but it's just not something you're going to catch me doing very often, if at all.

My emotional range tends to stay somewhere between angry, irritated and somewhat content. Rarely do I break out of this mold. For me to be like this, standing in the shower, leaning against the light blue tiles on the wall as the water runs over me, crying like a fucking baby, is very odd. Perhaps it's recent events, abandoning everyone, but I don't think that's it. I think it's everything. I haven't cried in a while, and I don't even want to think about the last time I cried.

The amazing part is, as soon as I reach down and turn the water on the shower off, my own waterworks are gone. Suddenly I'm angry at myself for letting this happen. I _don't _cry. I told myself I wouldn't after what happened a year ago. I made a promise to myself to stop being so vulnerable. I never showed it, but I always was. In the privacy of my own room I was the weakest person in the world. But after last year – last summer to be more accurate – I completely shut down. I became even more angry, more of a jerk, more full of myself. I'd like to say it's a defense mechanism.

But I think it's just who I am.

I walk out of the bathroom, drops of water falling soundly onto the carpet of the hallway. In a fit of rage, anger directed only at myself, I grab the soaking wet hat off my head and throw it down the hall. It makes a loud, gross sound as it hits the mirror that hangs at the end of the hallway. I hate mirrors, and it's not a recent hate from the dream I had. I've always hated mirrors. The world would be a better place if no one knew what they looked like. I have the urge to break the mirror and I'm almost about to.

But the doorbell rings. And at half past eight on a Sunday morning, that can only mean one thing. I open the the door up and find Kyle Broflovski looking at me sheepishly. "Hey," he says, surveying my appearance with interest. I can't blame him. I didn't take the time to dry off at all. My clothes are starting to get really uncomfortable and my hair must be doing crazy things.

"Hey," I reply. Then I turn around, leaving the door open so he can come inside, and walk towards my room. "I'm going to change," I say after I hear him shut the front door. I don't turn around, just walk into my room and quickly change. And I mean quickly. Like, record time. I peel off my sweatshirt and boxers because they're literally clinging to my form, and change into the same basic outfit, just different colors. I shake out my hair a few times until it's still damp but I can live with it.

Kyle's made himself at home. He's looking through my cupboards, probably for something to suit his Kosher and diabetic needs. I doubt we have what he's looking for, but I wait for him to notice that I'm back in amused silence. When he finally turns around he looks just as awkward as he did when I opened the door. "Why are you here?" I ask him as I lean against the counter. He's staring at the 'confetti' I threw everywhere.

"Did a paper shredder throw up?" he asks, sounding completely serious.

"My mom left me a note. I don't like when she leaves me notes," I say. Kyle raises his eyebrows and just barely hides a small smile. "Anyway, why are you for the first time in months?" No one ever comes over to my house besides Tweek. Everyone else hates how my family argues and how we all arbitrarily flip each other off. It makes them feel weird and out of place, I know it does.

"Clyde said he talked to you," Kyle says.

"Yeah, so?" I reply, not sure why this would matter so much to Kyle of all people.

"You were with Christophe, and Clyde said that, um, he was acting kind of – _protctive _over you?" he adds, voice automatically sounding melancholy when he mentions the French boy. Somehow he manages to keep his face blank, eyes avoiding mine as he traces abstract shapes on the counter top with his finger. I feel bad at the same time that I don't. Obviously he's confused and hurt. But at the same time, so is Christophe, and Kyle has made no attempt to, as far as I know, talk to him. Yet he has the nerve to come talk to me about it? Fucking Jew.

"It's a possibility," I tell him, smiling at him with blatantly fake innocence. Let him think what he wants to, it's fun to watch him get angry. It's not fun, however, when he shoves me, hard, and I stumble back, half from the the force and half from surprise because I had no idea he was about to do that. "What the _fuck_, Kyle?" I yell at him, using my favorite form of non-verbal swearing to double the impact of what I said.

"Don't joke about that shit, Craig," Kyle says, getting a lot more irritated than I would have suspected. But I guess, knowing what I do now about him and Christophe, I'm forced to accept his reaction. "I know that I haven't exactly…been there, you could say. But that really doesn't give you the right to just, to just – take my place, like that."

"Kyle, I'm joking," I say, slowly, as if I'm explaining this to my little sister. "I mean, first off, I don't have a thing for Christophe, especially when you consider how much his bitchy alter-ego hates me. Secondly, even if I _did _take your place, you have no right to get mad at me, because you're the one that's avoiding him, not the other way around. If 'Tophe wants to replace you with me, that's his deal, and I'm not trying to play a part in it."

"But, Craig," he says, dragging out my name in that annoying way he does, "you don't understand."

"Alright, I don't understand," I agree, shrugging. "Why don't you talk to someone who will? Like Stan or something?" I'm trying to point out the fact that, out of everyone Kyle could have chosen to talk to about this, _I _am ultimately the most illogical. Hell, he could have talked to Cartman about this before me! He's obviously noticed that I've been absent from our little group for some time now and I've been spending my time with his…whatever Christophe is to him now, the entire time. So why talk to _me_?

I walk out of the kitchen and he follows me as I make my way into my living room. "Stan doesn't know, you know that," he says, voice still miserable.

"Kenny, then," I say with a shrug, sitting on the couch.

He sits next to me, just a little too close for comfort, which really isn't that close at all. Right now I don't want to be close to anyone. "He doesn't like it," Kyle admits. "Kenny thinks Christophe is just…not right. For me, at least. And, you know, maybe he's right, but I feel like he's being kind of biased, to be completely honest."

"Ah, he's more of a fan of you and Stan then?" I ask, thinking back on what Kenny said to me when we talked a few days ago. He said that Kyle and Christophe were falling apart, but just how much did the blond contribute to that? We all know Kenny can be rather persuasive, so it's likely that he was able to change Kyle's mind or at least confuse him sufficiently enough to make him give up on the French boy and go for his best friend. Kyle just nods, morosely. "This is going to sound really…odd," I say, slowly, "but I don't think you should avoid him. That's not going to solve anything."

"That's pretty hypocritical of you," he says. I notice, for some reason, that he's not wearing his hat. Neither am I, but there's a logical reason for it. I hate Kyle's hair for the same reason I hate Kenny's eyes. It makes me feel inadequate. He has this, like, tamed jewfro, random red curls sticking up every which way. But he always hides his hair under his hat, except for right now, which is odd. He should do this more often, not wearing his hat.

"How so?" I ask him, shortly.

"You're avoiding everyone, for one reason or another," Kyle says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me. "I can't really understand why. Nothing has happened recently between you and anyone else that would make it reasonable. From what I can remember, you were angry for no reason on Wednesday, but that isn't rare. Then Kenny talked to you and suddenly you're Christophe's best friend and none of us are worth your precious time. I know there's a reason for what you're doing, though, Craig."

"Yeah, there is, Kyle, but it's honestly not something I feel like telling you." My voice is surprisingly soft and, I don't know, sort of caring. Not like me at all. I guess I can just empathize with Kyle's situation, because we're both avoiding someone who's important to us, for purposes that the person doesn't know about. "Look, it's – I don't want to do it. I didn't make some conscious decision to do this out of spite for someone. I have a reason for what I'm doing and you have to trust me when I tell you it's a good one."

"Fine," he says, with a little sigh. It must be hard for the nosey son of a bitch to not know what's going on. "I should probably go home, I told my mom I was just going for a walk. I didn't think you would be home anyway." I can tell exactly what went through Kyle's mind. He came over to my house at the time I was least likely to even be home. Kyle didn't want to talk to me, but he felt the need to try to at least. How very him.

"Alright." I stay where I am on the couch. Kyle just stands up. He doesn't make any move to reach out to me or say anything else; he just stands up and makes his way to the front door.

"Hey, Craig?" he says. I turn slightly to see him standing with the door ajar, looking back at me. "It has to do with…Tweek, doesn't it? Why you're not hanging around us anymore, I mean."

"I…yeah. Everything has to do with Tweek." The redhead nods, opens the door further and then leaves. I sit in the silence of my own home for an unknown amount of time, thinking about what I said, analyzing it and trying to figure out something that, in the recent years of my life, has had nothing to do with Tweek. All I can come up with is cigarettes, flipping people off and lying. It's painfully obvious, at least to me, that Tweek has always been something more than a friend to me. Maybe the counselor was right after all.

I wonder when the withdrawals will start…or if they already have.

* * *

"I was…thinking," I say, weighing the importance of each word as I speak, lacing my gloved fingers together as I do so.

"Well, it iz about time," the French boy answers me, giving me a fake, appraising look, like he's proud of me or something. Its French class and we've been left on our own. The teacher told us it's essentially a free day, but we're supposed to be trying to have conversation in French. No one is, because, really, none of us pay much attention. Grades are dismal, with the exception of course, of Christophe's and, to a lesser extent, my own and Kyle's.

"Ha," I say, frowning at him. I bite my lip and then shrug. "It's just, you know, it's been a while now. Since we started skipping, I mean." It's been a week, actually, and maybe that isn't very long, but it's felt like forever to me. "Maybe your teacher doesn't care, but I can only miss so many classes. And I really don't feel like failing Phys Ed, of all things, you know?"

Christophe raises an eyebrow at me. He seems to consider this for a moment as he absently taps his pencil against the desk. Usually I don't sit next to him, but Kyle was only too glad to give up the seat he's been awkwardly sitting in for a while now. He's behind us, pretending not to listen, but doing a horrible job at it. "Yes, zat would be most unfortunate," Christophe says after a few moments. He shrugs, like he doesn't care. And, hell, maybe he doesn't, but I doubt it.

"We could hang out after school or something, if you want to?" I ask, tentatively. This entire time we haven't been hanging out much beyond the time that school actually ends. An hour or so past then, nothing more. The fact that I'm offering this option now must seem pretty weird to him, but he doesn't really answer me, just does his X-ray vision and decides that it's his job to figure out what's really going on here.

It takes him longer than usual though. He does it for the remaining five or so minutes of class. I'm still skipping lunch with him, but he doesn't speak when we go to his locker and we both drop our French notes into the messy thing. Even when we're outside and Gregory's rambling on about how wonderfully he and Wendy are together – which really doesn't come as a surprise, it's just a matter of how long it lasts until someone else interferes – Christophe doesn't say anything.

Gregory hates me and I know he does. Well maybe 'hate' is too strong of a word. Still, it's an intense dislike and I don't know how I earned it. I thought, at first, it was because I technically stole Christophe from him, but the French boy was quick to let me know this wasn't true. Through everything he and the Brit have been acquaintances at best, only conversing because they've known each other since they were young. Something about going to the same elementary school for a few years. Whatever their story is, I don't remember it, nor do I care to. Because Gregory hates me and I know he does. How do I know?

It might have something to do with the fact that, despite him now knowing my name, he still refers to me as 'that wanker.'

But regardless of Gregory and why he doesn't like me, or maybe because of it or maybe – I don't know. Point is, Christophe doesn't talk at all during lunch and I'm forced to endure Why Gregory And Wendy Are Simply The Best Couple Ever, which includes such points as: they use the same shampoo, they do their homework together and it makes Eric Cartman insanely jealous. I'll have to remember that last one. Anything to be a bitch to Cartman.

I think it must have had something to do with the blond Brit. Either that or Christophe seriously needed to think about what he was going to say to me, because as soon as we're left alone – or as alone as you can be in the middle of a high school hallway – he says what's on his mind. "Ze reason zat you do not want to skip class today," he says, opening his locker door, "it iz because you want to see zem, especially ze twitchy one, am I right?"

"Yeah," I reply, quickly, "but 'Tophe it's not like…I don't know. It's not like I'm choosing them over you or something stupid like that. Just, well, as much as I'd love to avoid my problems, I can't do it forever." He looks surprised, but only slightly. Probably because these past few days I've been talking less and thinking more, only agreeing with a slight nod rather than an impassioned speech when he calls love 'sheet' and God 'ze greatest faggot of zem all.'

He confirms my thoughts when he speaks next. "I saw zis coming," he shrugs, slamming his locker door. "I cannot say zat I am 'appy, but I am not exactly sad eizer. It iz like losing a friend zat was never really mine to begin with, I believe."

"You're not losing me," I manage to say, somehow assertively, because even with a few simple statements Christophe has the ability to make me feel like the worst person to ever live.

"In a sense, oui, I am," he says leaning against the locker door, crossing his arms as he speaks. "Not to sound overly dramatic, but zis is really 'ow it iz meant to be. We do not exactly make ze best of friends, you 'ave to admit. All we 'ave done the past week is bring each ozers moods to new lows. Really it iz not 'ealthy at all." He looks calm, but I know he's really not, because he also looks cold right now.

"You're being dramatic," I tell him.

"Moi?" he questions, pointing to himself and smiling that stupid smile.

"Yes, you," I say, a tad too loud, because a few people walking by look at me like I'm crazy. I just barely resist the urge to flip them off, and by that I mean I wait to do it until I'm out of their line of sight. "Look, I'm always dramatic, I don't really think about what I'm saying or doing, for that matter, so I make everything out to be a big deal, but you keep things in perspective usually. I guess this just doesn't seem like something you'd get so upset about."

"I think zat it iz more of a matter of you making a big deal out of my reaction," he says, looking down at his black shirt, almost apologetically, like he didn't want to say what he just said. "I think zat…I am not as upset as you want me to be and your reaction iz to get angry at me for no reason at all, ozer zan to make yourself feel better. But, Nommel, you do zis all ze time, wiz ze sole purpose of making yourself feel better, and I do not zink zat it works out, am I correct?"

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, glaring at him even though he's looking in the opposite direction now. "Fine, maybe I'm wrong." I just shrug and Christophe looks at me blankly. "Okay, yeah, I'm wrong and you're right." Now he shrugs and looks away from me again. He really is right, but it's just that he never gives me a real reaction, at least not when it comes to our 'friendship' or whatever you want to call it. It seems practically dispensable to him, but I like to think that it's not. "Fuck you, 'Tophe," I finally say, not even bothering to flip him off, because I'm really not angry.

Suddenly he looks at me, not through me, at me, and raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" he says. He almost looks somewhat…proud of me; I guess that's the best description. I don't know why, but it's like he approves of me telling him to go fuck himself. "Well, I will see you after school zen," he tells me with his stupid, messed-up smile, "not zat I can hang out for very long."

"Grounded?" I ask, knowingly.

"Non," he says, slowly, a content look on his face as he stands up straighter. The bell rings, we're both late for class, but that's how things have been going for a while now with us. "Kyle wants to talk wiz me."

* * *

I almost consider running to the Shop class and finding the French boy so we can just skip again. But I know that's not an option anymore. I have to face things whether I want to or not, and Physical Education is the first step I have to take, even though it seems like the hardest. I assure myself that once I get through it, just one hour, everything else will be easier. But that, like most other things I tell myself and others, is a lie. Things don't get easier; you just get better at dealing with them.

Standing in front of the locker room door is nerve-racking. The stupidest part is, no one should even be in there by now, I'm at least five minutes late to class, and 'life coach' should be about halfway through his speech by now. But I'm still standing here, in front of the door, unable to open it. Until someone opens it for me and leads me inside. It's Kyle, of course, and I'm almost surprised Stan isn't with him, considering the two of them have been hunting me down ever since Kyle and I talked on Sunday.

They're the entire reason I'm doing this, because they've told me what's going on. And a lot more has happened since I last saw Tweek than I even thought possible. Sure it's been over a week, but I never expected things would get as bad as they, at least according to Kyle and Stan, have. It's all my fault, as usual, because in the process of trying not to hurt him, I think I damaged Tweek more than I ever would have had told him everything instead of leaving him without so much as a word as to why.

"What do you want?" I ask the redhead as I open my locker.

"Making sure you don't do something you regret," he replies turning around as I start to change. How polite. "I don't know for sure, but he might freak out, I mean you've barely looked at him all this time and now you're going to try and talk to him and all, that would give him a reason to freak out even if he _wasn't _Tweek." I can't see his face, of course, but I pause for a moment, considering this.

"I thought you said he wasn't – " I start, thoughtfully.

"He's not, but…Craig, you're the only one who can sufficiently handle both ends of the spectrum," Kyle says, quietly. I bet he's fidgeting, tugging at his red curls, and I turn around, changed, to find I'm right. Our eyes meet. "What I mean is, you're the only one who can cause him to really, truly freak out and at the same time no one else can calm him down like you can."

"Is he still carrying around the thermos?" I ask, after a silent moment.

Kyle sighs and motions to follow him. "Yeah. But like I said yesterday, Clyde checked, there's no coffee in it anymore."

Tweek without coffee doesn't make sense. Tweek without coffee is like…me without flipping people off, Kyle without Judaism, Christophe without an accent, Kenny without his parka. It's simply illogical; the two should never be divided. Coffee-drinking is part of who Tweek is and without it he isn't himself. Which is exactly what's happened, I realize as Kyle and I reach the gym. 'Life coach' is just at the tail end of his speech and he gives me a weary look, but I'm not paying attention.

For the past few days, Kyle has told me, Tweek hasn't been himself. And I don't mean he's been a little quiet or a little less paranoid or even less twitchy. Kyle, with help from Stan, tried to explain to me what was going on, but nothing compares to seeing the blond as he is now. It hurts, physically, to see him like this. Tweek without coffee, Tweek without twitching, Tweek without any life in his eyes, just sitting there, holding the silver thermos in hands that barely move. It's not right, it's not Tweek, and it's almost scary to look at because he's someone else.

And then he looks up at me with those dead, golden eyes, and I don't know what I expected. That he would hate me and I would instantly know it? That he would return to his normal self just because of my presence? He does neither, he looks back down at the silver thermos and starts to shake. Not like usual, he's not worried or caffeinated, but he almost looks like he doesn't know what to be, and some part of me wants to reach out to him and tell him how to feel, that he has to be happy, because my own happiness depends on his, but 'life coach' yells at us to go do laps, and I'm frozen where I stand.

Naturally it's Kyle who drags me outside. "What did I tell you?" he hisses to me.

"I didn't think he was like – _that_," I murmur back, only barely audible. "I thought maybe he just needed…"

"That he needed you?" Kyle asks as we reach the track. "He does, but he needs more than you just standing a few feet away from him. Jesus, Craig, stop being such a pussy." And he pushes me towards the blond, who's standing at the side of the track, watching everyone else, and then the Jew runs off to his best friend, who he somehow can be around all the time without feeling awkward in the least. I flip him off for being better at something than me.

I think that scariest thing about how Tweek is acting is that he doesn't look at me. Even when he met my eyes in the gym he wasn't really _looking _at me. Sure, he saw me and I'm sure some recluse part of his mind registered that it was me, Craig, that dick that had ditched him for some French fag when we were supposed to be…are best friends. But Tweek didn't look at me, he just saw me. And there's a difference.

"Tweek," I say, quietly, "look at me, please?" He turns to see me, but it's just those lifeless eyes again. It hurts so bad to look at him like this and know I'm the cause. But it doesn't make sense, not really. I know I was gone, I know I'm his best friend and I should have been there for him, but Tweek doesn't need me. Tweek needs coffee and things to worry about and, or so he says, someone to get rid of the gnomes that steal his underwear. But he doesn't need _me_. "Please, Tweek?" I repeat.

There's this tiny spark of life in his eyes for a moment and he kind of twitches, shudders involuntarily as I reach out, intending to – I don't know, put my hand on his shoulder or something like that, but I don't get a chance to do that because he grabs me and pulls me into a hug. It's like he's holding onto me to prove that I'm real, that I'm here. He's muttering something that I can't really understand, but it doesn't matter. He isn't better just because of this, I know he isn't.

"Tweek, please talk to me," I say, softly. He doesn't let go of me though and keeps his head buried in my chest, so I'm just left with his blond hair to stare at. I look up for a moment to find Kyle and Stan watching us, but they quickly look away when I see them. A few of the girls are watching, whispering amongst themselves as they walk, but I could really care less what they say at this moment. All that matters is Tweek. I didn't even notice, but the silver thermos fell to the ground with a dull thump at some point, and now that Tweek has let go of me it's his first priority to pick it up. Most of the time that would be hard for him, I would have to do it, because he end up dropping it several more times before succeeding.

But he's fine this time and I don't like that. I don't mean to sound like a controlling bastard, but I hate the fact that right now he didn't need my help with that. I'm supposed to be the only one who can help Tweek and now he can do that on his own. It makes me feel useless, because the life is completely gone again in his eyes and he's moved away from me more than he needed to now, watching everyone again.

"I'm going to come over to your house today," I try to say, acting as if he has no choice, but my voice is faltering and he just blinks and continues staring forward at the track. "Is that okay with you?" I ask, quickly. He looks at me, completely blank, and nods, once, and then looks away. We stay like that for the rest of class, it nearly kills me inside, and I can't even look at anyone else once we get back inside. I want to tell everyone that I didn't know this would happen and I never meant for it to happen, but there's no one to blame besides myself.

"Why didn't you tell me he was that bad?" I ask Kyle in a hushed tone outside of the locker room.

"Because," he explains, not even bothering to keep his voice quiet, "I knew you would try and blame someone else for it, dude. You saw it for yourself and now you have to deal with it." He shrugs when I flip him off. "Whatever, Craig. It's really not my problem, I don't have to do anything about it, but I'm trying to. There's nothing else I can do about it now, so it's up to you."

"Fuck."

"That could work," Kyle says, with a shrug.

"That's not what I meant, you douche," I growl.

"Just don't ask to do his laundry and I'm sure you'll be fine," Kyle quips. He only just manages to make it in the locker room, because that remark causes me to attempt to punch him in the face. Now I'm not sure what to do though. Tweek didn't talk to me once the entire hour and I doubt there's much I can do to change that. At least not on my own. No, this time, as much as I don't want to, I'm going to, for the first and only time I tell myself, be the one to seek out advice from a certain blond know-it-all.

**A/N**: Fun fact, yeah? I almost meant for this story to be a quick oneshot. And then it was just going to be three chapters. Now I'm thinking more, aha. It's funny the way things like that end up happening. But you should probably give yourself a little round of applause if you review, because that's what keeps me writing. So, I'm really sorry if this chapter was like…bleh. I've barely been sleeping lately, and you have no idea how much coffee I'm drinking (seriously, it's getting close to Tweek status) so every idea I have ends up with me reacting like 'OH GOD THAT'S SO GENIUS' when it probably sucks serious balls. Speaking of sucking balls…I don't know, just wanted to say that. I hate 'Tophe in this chapter. Yell at me for portraying him so terribly, please. Or at least leave a review, they make me happy. c:  
Until next time, tweekers


	6. I Fall For You

**Addict**

**A/N**: This chapter isn't as disappointing as the last one. Quick update, because…this chapter was insanely fun to write. Oh, apparently, or so I've been told, this story is getting translated into German. I found that cool. :D  
_Important:_ I have a proposal. I can either make this story end soon and get fluffy rather quick, or I can make it quite long, but the plot twists I'll be using the do that aren't the happiest of things. I'd much rather do that latter, but tell me what you think when you review, please.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings and Pairings**: You know these by now, kids, no need to reiterate.

**Chapter Six**: I Fall For You

"Kenny's not here."

The door gets slammed in my face and I'm left staring at the peeling paint of the McCormick's house. I sigh and look and Christophe, who's standing next to me. He doesn't say anything, but it's apparent he's bored. We've been looking for the blond for about twenty minutes now, which is far longer than I would have expected it to take. Hell, I thought I would see him on the bus, but he wasn't there and no one seems to know where he went after that, not even Butters.

Kenny doesn't have a cell phone and I'm not even sure where mine is anyway, he's not at home, which his mother's angry voice made quite obvious, and no one has seen him since lunch. Which is odd, because as much as you might expect Kenny to be the sort of person to skip school, he doesn't, at least not by now. Our school has a strict policy, if you miss more than ten days of a class per semester, you lose credit. Kenny skips twice a week for the first two months of each semester and then remembers the policy and stops.

Basically, there's not a chance in hell that he skipped after lunch. Yet no one really noticed except for, you guessed it, Butters and nobody listens to Butters, with the possibly omission of Kyle. But Kyle was too busy helping me with my problems and, so says Christophe, was probably thinking about his own quite a lot, too. What you have to understand here is that Kenny doesn't do this. Everyone always knows where he is, whether they want to or not, he tells everyone.

Now, all of a sudden, no one has any idea where he is. The one time I actually _want _to talk to him, he's nowhere to be found. Believe me, I've checked every conceivable place that he would be, and in a small town like South Park, that's not many places. He's not at Butters' house, or anyone else's for that matter including his own, he's not at Stark's Pond or hanging around the school campus. He's not even walking around town or in any of the stores I checked.

"Zis…Kenny, 'e iz ze one zat…wiz ze orange jacket?" Christophe asks.

"Yes, 'Tophe, that's him," I answer, shortly. I'm not having the best time dealing with people right now. Oh – ha – when do I ever, though? It's worse than usual though. I can't even be civil. I don't know what it is and I'd like to believe I'm just frustrated or angry for some stupid reason, but I know that's not all it is. I'm upset, and usually when I'm upset I make sure I'm alone. Because when you're alone, unequivocally and definitely alone, you can break down and pretend it never happened. But I'm in need of people right now. It's a disaster waiting to happen.

"Oh, 'e likes to give out ze advice to people who do not want it, oui?" Christophe says coldly. I look at him. We're walking on the side of the road now, nearing the railroad tracks. The French boy is lighting a cigarette. He's had two since school let out, so this will be his third. He's smoking like there's no tomorrow and I know it's because he's talking to his favorite redhead later today. "I zink," he adds, throwing the lighter to me, "zat 'e told Kyle some bad zings about me."

"Why do you think that?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the see-through green of the lighter.

"Ze day zat Kyle began to…ignore me, I suppose, was also ze day zat 'e talked to ze boy in ze orange jacket," Christophe says. "Just like what 'appened wiz you and ze twitchy one. Zat boy, ze…Kenny. 'e ruins zings for ozer people, because 'e cannot 'ave what 'e wants for 'imself." That's the thing about Christophe, you know, his cynicism finds the most negative points in people and he exposes them with flippant observations, because all Christophe sees is the bad in a person.

I could try to justify Kenny in this situation, but I don't. "He used to die a lot," I say, instead, "it's kind of weird if you don't know about it."

"Kyle told me about zat," he says. "'e always comes back, zough, and it 'as not 'appened for years now."

"Yeah it hasn't happened…for years now," I repeat slowly, my eyes widening as something occurs to me. No one knows where Kenny is, he's nowhere to be seen and he hasn't died in years so that's not exactly the first thing that would come to mind. "We have to go talk to Kyle," I state, stopping in my tracks. Christophe drops his cigarette and mutters an expletive. "Okay, fine, we can talk to Stan or something instead. They've got to know if something's happened by now."

"Why not ze blond 'e iz always wiz?" Christophe questions. I know he doesn't want to see Stan any more than he wants to see Kyle. Stan is his competition, whether the raven-haired boy knows it or not, and Christophe dislikes him greatly for that, even if it does seem a little stupid for him to do so, I guess I can understand. I'm pretty sure he wants to talk to Kyle alone, anyway, not right now with me there.

"Butters?" I ask, with a sigh. "He probably _would _be the best one to go to. But if Kenny isn't dead we'll just freak him out. He's the most likely to know if something happened to Kenny, but I'd much rather avoid him if he knows anyway." Back when Kenny still died all the time, in middle school when he and Butters were becoming close, no one liked to be around Butters when Kenny died. Butters simple can't handle it, and while he would almost certainly benefit from being around people, none of us care enough to deal with him.

"I see," Christophe replies, slowly, reaching in his pocket for a new cigarette. He motions for me to hand him the lighter, but I just stare at him. "Give me ze lighter," he demands now, starting to get angry with me. Now, I like to smoke as much as the next nicotine-addicted teenager, but Christophe is about the light his fourth cigarette in less than an hour and it really seems unnecessary to me. So when I hear a car about to drive by I turn around and throw the lighter into the road.

The driver doesn't notice, but as soon as the car goes past the lighter is cracked. I have good aim. But this really isn't the time to revel in my ability to throw a plastic lighter in the path of a car. Christophe practically snarls at me and grabs the front of my shirt, pushing me into the road. It seems that I'm worth about as much as a ninety-nine cent lighter to him, because he throws me right into the path of an oncoming car. It's only by sheer luck that I manage to stumble far enough away and the driver manages to swerve just enough to miss me.

"Dude!" I yell at him, staring at him in shock. I'm still in the middle of the road, but there really isn't a lot of traffic at three in the afternoon in the residential part of our little mountain town. He doesn't look at me now, and I flip him off, and I _really _mean it. I threw his lighter into the road; he threw _me _into the road. Is that even logical? Somehow though, we're still walking with each other.

He doesn't say he's sorry or make an attempt to amend his actions, but I would honestly be surprised if he did. I'm not surprised, however, that he has another lighter in his pocket and doesn't hesitate to light his fourth cigarette. I don't say anything, because it's obvious that Christophe isn't going to listen to me any more than I listen to him. We seem to have made some sort of subconscious agreement that we're going to talk to Stan because we're heading towards his house.

Christophe has kind of trailed off behind me, but I can tell he's there, following me, because he's being loud and obnoxious whenever he exhales the cigarette smoke. I'm almost to the point where I want to push _him _into traffic, but we reach the Marsh's house before I get the chance. He looks less than happy to be here. Not angry, but not sad, just kind of empty. He's not really Christophe anymore. I wasn't planning on hanging out with the Mole to be quite honest, but here I am, standing next to him.

I'm too indecisive, I just stand there for a moment and the French boy has to be the one to ring the doorbell, although he does it rather rudely, slightly pushing me out of the way so he can do it and then muttering something about how stupid I am. Or at least I think that's what he said, he's speaking in French. Stan answers the door and wavers at the sight of us.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He sounds confused, probably because it's not just me standing on his doorstep, it's the fact that I'm with the Mole on his doorstep.

"Do you know if Kenny's alright?" I ask, ignoring his question.

"Aww, goddammit," he mutters with a small sigh. "You guys might as well come in then. It's not like you're the only ones." The Mole and I follow him into the house. He wasn't kidding, I realize, when we enter the family room. Kyle's there, of course, and he looks at us rather apologetically. Cartman – now, Cartman, I wasn't expecting – just kind of rolls his eyes and mutters 'Jesus Christ' when he sees us. And then…there's Butters.

He's sitting next to Cartman, sobbing. It's this creepy, almost-silent sobbing, that makes me think this has been going on for a while now. Every few seconds he makes a little hiccupping noise, but he keeps his eyes on the carpet in front of the couch he's sitting on. Cartman looks pissed that Butters is sitting next to him, and I don't understand why the fatass is here anyway.

"So, he's…?" I ask, trailing off.

"Is anybody hungry?" Stan says quickly. I give him an odd look. Who _cares _if anyone is hungry?

"I am." Cartman, of course.

"All right, uh, Craig, come on, you can help me…get stuff, or whatever," Stan mutters. Oh, right, he doesn't give a fuck if anyone's hungry; he just needs to be able to talk to me in private. I start to follow him into the kitchen, but then I see Christophe – not the Mole – hanging back, trying to melt into the walls apparently, and avoiding everyone's eyes. Kyle is doing the same, but trying to sink into the couch.

"Do you want to come in the kitchen?" I ask him quietly.

"Oui," he responds, eyes desperately meeting mine. He looks really weak right now, which I suppose is because he hasn't been this close to the redhead in ages. Kyle _still _isn't wearing his hat. It's odd, but it's really not something I need to be worried about. Christophe and I walk into the kitchen and find Stan pulling things out of cupboards and the fridge.

"Dude, what the fuck happened?" I ask. Stan turns around and glares at me, more than likely because I said that rather loud and everyone out in the family room probably heard me.

"Butters was with him," Stan tells us, quietly, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. "I guess…Kenny did it on purpose. Well, I mean, he must have. Butters won't really say what happened, but as far as we can tell, he went up to Stark's Pond and saw Kenny. Obviously he was happy, since none of us have known were Kenny's been for hours, you know? So, again we don't know for sure, I guess Butters tried to talk to him, but Kenny just kind of ignored him."

"Isn't Stark's Pond frozen by now though?" I say, skeptically.

"Well, yeah, or at least frozen enough to the point where you would have to be _trying _to break the ice to even have a chance of falling in," Stan says pointedly. "I mean, for the millionth time, _we don't know _and won't know for sure until tomorrow, but Kyle's pretty sure that's what happened." He shrugs and looks down at the floor.

"But 'e iz 'appy." Stan and I both look at Christophe, who takes a long drag from his cigarette before continuing, thoughtfully. "I do not know 'im very well, but ze boy in ze orange jacket, 'e seems 'appy to me. Zere is no reason for 'im to kill 'imself, at least not a logical one, non?" Once again he places the cigarette on his lips.

"I – yes…I mean, no, I mean, just, yeah, I get your point," Stan stutters. "But, like I said, we just kind of pieced that together from what Butters has said in-between well, you saw him, and we might be completely wrong." The tone of voice he's using though, I can tell, there's no doubt in his mind that what he's saying is the truth. But, typical Stan, he doesn't tell us it like it's a fact, even if he thinks it's one.

"Shit," I mutter, putting a hand to my temple. "I really needed to talk to him." To a lot of people this might sound completely heartless. But there's no reason to think that Kenny won't be back tomorrow. Keeping that logic in mind, it's like he's just going to busy all night or got grounded or something. It's really none of my business whether this happened on accident or if Kenny purposely killed himself.

"Did he want to talk to you again?" Stan asks, raising an eyebrow.

"The opposite, actually," I say, after a few moments of silence, biting my lip. I don't know what's so awkward about admitting that fact, but it really is. Stan just sort of 'hmm's and turns around. I would ask him what's taking so long, Cartman will eat anything after all, but I realized, looking at the stuff he's rejecting, he's thinking about Kyle. Everything that has too much sugar or isn't kosher is put to the side, and he's left with essentially two choices. Both of which are healthy, neither or which Cartman will ever consider. When I say he'll eat anything, I mean anything bad for him.

"You want to talk to him about Tweek, right?" he says, grimacing at his cupboards. He's put everything back by now, but after a long minute of staring at what he's put back, he goes back to pulling it all back out again. I swear, he's hopeless.

"Mm, yeah," I admit. "Stupid as it might sound; he's really the only one who knows enough about what's going on, and the only one who would be able to give me decent advice as to what I should do." Stan nods, at me, and we exchange looks of understanding. Maybe it was about time Kenny died, we all kind of take him for granted anyway, and right now I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who could use the blond's all-knowing information. "You know, Cartman isn't going to care if his food is kosher," I finally voice, giving Stan an innocent look.

The other boy flushes and mutters something about how I'm an asshole, but just grabs a bag of chips and leads the way back out to the family room. "Jesus Christ, took you long enough," Cartman cries as Stan throws the bag to him unceremoniously. Butters has stopped crying, though he looks utterly miserable and doesn't even bother to acknowledge anyone's existence. Christophe is standing a little closer to me than usual and Kyle is keeping his eyes glued to the burgundy couch.

"As fun as this is," I say, "I should probably get going."

"Going to see Tweek?" Cartman asks, pieces of the chips he's eating flying out of his mouth with each word.

"Yeah," I tell him, "what's it to you fatass?"

He glares at the words, but soon reverts to an innocent expression. Yeah, right. "You know, Craig, I don't really blame him for being mad at you," he simpers, "one day you two are perfectly fine and the next you're hanging all over the French faggot over there. I think anyone would be mad. Don't you agree with me, Stan?" Stan looks confused; he's not sure why he's being pulled into this. Cartman seems to know more about what's going on than any of us knew.

Kyle, however, looks pissed, and with good reason, and I'm sure he has a few words he wants to say to Cartman, but I don't give him the chance. You see, the only defense I have right now is to be immature right back. "Yeah well, Wendy's dating Gregory," I yell at him.

"Aww," Stan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Craig, what the fuck."

"No she's not," Cartman cries frantically. He must be in denial.

"Dude," Kyle says.

"Oh, Jesus, you guys, he was going to find out anyway, sorry that I shoved it in his face!" I yell. I'm kind of getting fed up with all of them. By this point I'm the only one who's even begun to face my problems. "There you go Cartman, now your obvious sexual tension towards Wendy Testaburger has been said out loud; I don't really think it makes a difference in anyone's lives. And, for fuck's sake, Stan, you obviously can't stop thinking about Kyle, or at the very least what kind of food he eats, and there's definitely a reason for that. At the same time, 'Tophe, stop acting like a pussy and do what you're supposed to instead of getting this far and running away. All of you act so self-righteous and look at me like 'Oh, Craig, oh he needs to get his act together.' Well, I'm not the only one."

They're all kind of staring at me. Because I don't do this. I flip people off and lie to them and smoke a cigarette and then I feel better. I don't make little speeches to anyone; it's just not something I do. I think, out of all of them, Stan looks the most mortified, because I doubt even he realized just how much Kyle is on his mind. That's not to say that anyone else reacted lightly. Only Butters looks the same, but I doubt it has anything to do with me not saying anything to him.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do something I've been avoiding," I tell them in a calm voice that takes everything I have to maintain. Even as I leave the room no one speaks, they all stay silent. I close the front door and lean against it for a second, taking a deep breath. I could really use a cigarette right now, it would be really nice to have someone to lie to or someone to flip off, but none of that really helps me. Sure it would be nice to do or have what I want, but I don't need any of it.

The best thing to do right now would be to go see Tweek, but I'm in a bad mood right now, and I do need some advice. So I go to Stark's Pond thinking, I don't know, maybe Kenny's there for no apparent reason and he can tell me how to solve my problems. But, of course, he's not there. The pond is frozen over and I stare at it until I find the crack. At the very edge of the pond it's really thin, and I follow it with my eyes. It trails towards the center of the pond, smaller cracks getting more and more frequent up to the point where the ice breaks completely and you can see the freezing water for a few feet until the ice starts again.

I think I see an orange blur underneath the ice, but I'm not going to think about that, I tell myself. The weirdest part about all of this is, I feel sick to my stomach. And maybe if it was someone else, that would be normal. But it's Kenny. I mean, Kenny dies all the time, he'll be back tomorrow and make some joke about sex and we'll all just laugh with him and this won't even matter. I don't even _like _Kenny.

Something is seriously wrong with me.

* * *

It's a little after four now and I still haven't gone to Tweek's house. I plan on going, understand that, but I need to talk to someone. I realized that after I threw up three times and it wasn't because I was sick. I'm stressed out, worried and I think all this anger I have is starting to fuck me up, seriously. After searching through my room for fifteen minutes I found my cell phone and stared at it for a while before deciding who to call. I haven't talked to them in so long, but it only came naturally that I called Clyde and Token.

Despite everything, they agreed to come over and talk to me. They both sounded concerned, Token more so than Clyde, but that's understandable. I feel like an ass now, because they didn't even have to think for a second about whether or not they would come over, even though I've ignored them for over a week. I don't get how this works. Our friendship is, currently, making no sense to me. I put in zero effort and they jump at the chance to try and make me feel better.

I honestly don't know if I deserve it. I don't mean 'oh, gosh, I don't deserve you guys.' That's kind of bullshit, in my opinion. What I mean is, how they're treating me. I don't _know _if I deserve it. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. We've been friends for years now, so a week or so of me being a dick. At the same time, I've been a dick to them for years. More than likely I don't deserve a fucking thing from them, but I'm not going to fight it.

My dad's still at work, he won't be home until at least six and that's only if he doesn't go to the bar after. My mom is at some school thing with my little sister so, by default, my house is empty. Clyde and Token won't be here for at least ten minutes. Because, in South Park, there's really no point in buying a car. We all just walk wherever and if we're really lucky our parents will let us borrow their car once a month or something to go out of town.

But it doesn't matter, everything's the same no matter where you go.

In the mean time I should probably try and look halfway decent. I don't know what it is with me lately – possibilities include Christophe, lack of sleep and lack of Tweek – but I really don't give a shit about my appearance. Not the normal, eh, my hair doesn't need to be brushed and I'll just wear that day old shirt kind of attitude either. I don't think I've looked in a mirror since this past weekend.

I look like shit. You know how after you don't sleep for a day or two you get bags under your eyes? Yeah, well, you can't even imagine how obvious it is that I haven't been sleeping. My hair isn't just messy, it's downright disgusting. I just pull my hat down further so you can only see a few stray strands of hair. I'm getting skinnier, as luck would have it, because I don't eat much. I skip lunch and breakfast, and I just end up pushing the food around my plate at dinner. I don't even know how I had anything in my stomach to throw up.

But really, I think it's kind of pointless to worry about how I look right now. Especially since it's just Token and Clyde coming over. I mean, no hard feelings towards them, but I look better on my worst days than they could even hope to look. Goddamn, I'm an arrogant little prick.

The pair shows up at about half past four and I let them in. None of us really say anything, which is probably obligatory; it had to happen, so it is. There's nothing you can do to avoid the inevitable. And silence is to be expected right now. But that doesn't mean I like it any better than I usually do. I just shift uncomfortably when they walk in and bite my lip when we all automatically go to the living room. Nobody ever comes over to my house; they haven't been over in almost a year.

"You look…," Clyde finally says, slowly, not finishing what he started to say when I flip him off.

"Terrible," Token finishes, unapologetically. "But it probably doesn't matter to you, does it Craig? You're still better looking than all of us, right?"

"Most of you, yeah," I mumble. Token just kind of blinks at me, a silent 'wait, what?' He was expecting a confident answer. I was too, to be honest, but it seems like I can't say what I'm thinking right now. "Yeah, I look like shit, Token, you caught me on a bad day, congratulations, I hope it makes you feel better about yourself." I could flip him off, but I don't really care enough to do so right now.

"Dude, you've been having a bad week, not a bad day," Clyde informs me.

"That's not relevant," I cry.

"Actually it really is," Token says, reasonably. "You've done shit like this before, for a day or two, and the last time it got this bad was during middle school. But this isn't middle school. No one else is going back to that except you, Craig. And I don't really know why, because last time we talked about it you said you'd rather hang out with Cartman than Christophe. Then we turn around and – I should have known, really. That was just a lie, wasn't it?"

"Probably," I admit, feeling pitiful. I can't even remember saying that. Which means it's likely that I was lying. The truth is easy to remember. It's the truth, it's fact, it happened and you can't erase it or forget the details because the truth just _is_. But lies…lies are much more complicated than that. Your mind can forget them because they aren't, they never were or they're just some twisted fabrication that you came up with. "I'm going to talk to Tweek," I tell them, offering this up as some sort of solace, like it fixes everything.

"He isn't talking to anyone," Clyde says. He's not going to say anything to me about what I've been doing, I know he's not. At least, he won't be up front and accusing about it like Token. He'll just sit there, like he is right now, and not meet my eyes. We've already been through this, him and I, there's no need to talk about it again. Right now he's just worried that things are going to change. That's all he's ever been worried about. Clyde likes stability, people he can count on. It's probably why he gets upset so easily when things go wrong. He doesn't have stability at home so he counts on having it everywhere else.

I hate to say it, but I'm not really in the business of stability. If I was I don't think any of this would be happening. "I know," I reply. My voice sounds snide and condescending, but I don't mean it to. "I know," I repeat, leaning against the mantel of the fireplace. I've been standing this entire time, my nerves are wound up. Token sits down now next to Clyde on the couch. For a minute there's that has-to-happen silence again. "I did this so I wouldn't hurt him. I kind fucked things up, though; I didn't really think things through."

"No shit," Token says, but he says it quietly.

"Why would you hurt him?" Clyde asks, sounding honestly confused. He always has been kind of slow.

"Clyde, shut up," Token sounds frustrated, yet somehow amused at the same time. I wonder how long Token has known. Longer than I have, I bet. "Craig, you made a mistake," he says, turning to me, "but everyone makes mistakes. I mean, fuck, it's kind of just human nature. Do what you have to, but no matter what happens don't ditch us again. In particular, don't do this to Tweek again; I don't care what happens between you two. He needs you."

With that he's done. That's all it took. Not really advice, I guess, just those three words that Tweek needs me. That's enough to make me know what I have to do. It's all I need to hear and Token knows that. I think Clyde knows it too and there's this sort of knowing look that suddenly comes on his face and he's looking at me in a new light. We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important, which is something I've really missed, just talking to people, and then it's nearing five and I know I can't avoid it any longer.

"You know," I say, as we walk towards the front door so I can leave for Tweek's house and they can go home, "I need him too."

* * *

Tweek's mom lets me in the house. There are probably a few things you should know about Mrs. Tweak. First off, she's really critical of me and initially hated me being Tweek's friend. She much preferred him being close to Kyle and Stan. Secondly, she doesn't really help Tweek's nervousness or paranoia or whatever you want to call it. She, along with her husband, tends to aggravate his worries. And, third, over the years she's become like a second mother to me.

If you think about it, it really doesn't make sense. Most parents hate me and I can hardly blame them. But I'm around Tweek so much that I've basically become her problem child. Truth is, I see her and talk to her more than my own mother. Annoyed as she might be by me and as much as she might piss me off, that's how it works. So I can't really say that she's happy to see me when she opens the door, but she doesn't question my motives for being here in the first time in over a week.

"You haven't been here in ages, Craig," she says, standing to the side so I can come inside. She talks to me while I kick off my shoes and shed my jacket. "I'm sure Tweek will be really excited that you're here. He hasn't been himself recently, I'm sure you've noticed." I give a non-committal sigh in answer. "No one's being mean to him at school are they?" she suddenly asks. "I asked him that and he wouldn't tell me, but I told him, you know, kids do that and he does kind of make himself susceptible to them teasing him, so he shouldn't be so torn up about it."

"No," I say, eyes on the floor, "as far as I know no one is being mean to him." You know, except for me, really.

"Okay," she says, slowly, her voice disbelieving. "He's in his room, you know where it is." I do know where his room is. Upstairs, first door on the left, one window facing the backyard because he's been deathly scared of robbers since ninth grade and they statistically break into rooms facing the front yard or some stupid statistic like that. Everything in Tweek's life revolves around things like that.

His door isn't locked, but I kind of expected it to be. He's just sitting there and it hurts, it really _hurts _you know. Not like it hurts when I haven't had a cigarette for a while. Not like it hurts when I need to lie to someone. Not like it hurts when no one's around to flip off. Not like the anger hurts. It just hurts to see Tweek like this. So lifeless. Anyone else I could handle, but not Tweek. Jesus Christ, not _Tweek. _

Dead eyes look up at me and they really do look at me. I know he looks at me, because tears fill up his eyes and he quickly looks away, dropping the silver thermos he holds in his hands. It rolls towards me and I take the few steps necessary to pick it up and then walk towards the bed. He's shaking now and I know it's because he's not far from crying right now. Which, and this sounds terrible, makes me feel so much better. It means he's alive.

"Tweek," I say, softly, sitting next to him. But I don't know what else to say. Every apology in the world could come out of my mouth and I don't think it would ever be enough. I left him alone when he needed me and not we're both paying the price. He doesn't seem to care though; maybe all he needed was for me to be here. He breaks into these scary, completely silent tears, and I pull him close so I don't have to watch. I know it's my fault.

I don't know how long we sit there on his bed. It's not hours but it's not just a few minutes either. Neither one would bother me. However long he needs me to be there for him is fine by me. I'll stay there even if it's only a few minutes and even if it's hours on end. Whatever Tweek needs I'll give him. Right now I don't think he needs what I want though. Right now I think he needs his best friend, and that's what I'll be for him. When he speaks I nearly fall off the bed from surprise.

"I want some coffee," he says, quietly, with a sniffle.

"I'll make you some," I tell him. "Don't worry, Tweek, I'll make you some. Just stay here and, um, and I'll be back." Like he would go somewhere else. I start to get off of the bed he grabs onto my arm. I look back at him and he opens his mouth, like he's going to speak again, but thinks better of it and drops my arm. "Don't worry," I repeat, softly, with a small smile for him, "I'll be right back. I'm not going to leave you." He doesn't smile back, like I want him too, but he nods a little and that's all I can really ask for from him right now.

I hurry downstairs and find Mrs. Tweak in the kitchen. She looks at me in surprise. "He wants coffee," I say, barely containing my excitement. "He told me – he wants coffee."

"He did?" she asks, incredulously. She goes right to work with the coffee-maker on the counter as she talks. "So he talked to you then? Oh, wow, he hasn't talked since…church on Sunday, I would have to say. It must because you came to talk to him. I'm sure you know, he hasn't had coffee for about a week now. He won't drink it and whenever his father gives him a thermos full of coffee" – she presses a few buttons on the coffee-maker and then steps away – "he gets rid of it and replaces it with water."

"Oh," I say, biting my lip. I hate knowing all of this is my doing while she thinks I'm some sort of savior. The coffee-maker is making its required loud noises as it makes the caffeinated drink. "I was wondering," I say after a few seconds, "he didn't say anything about me, did he? I mean, before he stopped talking, you know?"

"Ah, I don't think so," she says, watching as the light signaling that the coffee is ready flashes on the coffee-maker. "Well, I asked about you once or twice," she admits. "Before church I asked if he wanted to go to the Donovan's after, since you were supposed to be there with you parents. You weren't with your parents though and, actually, you know, I think it was after we went there that he stopped talking." She has a cup of coffee in her hands now; I must have not been paying attention. "Did something happen between you two?"

"No," I say quickly, taking the coffee that she holds out to me, "I've just been…busy." That lies follows me up to Tweek's room. It makes me feel terrible. I haven't been busy. Not really. Not too busy to take a minute or two out of my day to see Tweek. But, I reason with myself, what am I supposed to tell her? I can't let her know that I was avoiding him and I certainly can't tell her why I did it either.

Tweek doesn't react much to my reappearance. Maybe he's back into his own little world, I don't know, but he does seem pleased to see the cup of coffee I hand him. He finishes it fairly fast ad he almost seems normal afterwards, twitching and shaking next to me on the bed, little outbursts from his mouth intermittently. This time when he talks it's more like him.

"Y-you're not going to – gah – you're not going to leave me, are you?" he asks, hands clutching onto my arm. It's like earlier, in Physical Education class, he wants to know that I'm here and that I'm real.

"No, Tweek, I'm not going to leave you," I reassure him. He accepts the words as truth, but I know that he doubts them. I doubt them too. I'm not stable; I'm constantly changing my mind. I know that and he knows that, but we can believe that I'm telling the truth about this, just this once. It might end up being detrimental, but right now I'm not thinking about the consequences and, for once, I don't think Tweek is either.

Eventually he falls asleep. I've been here for hours; it's almost nine in the evening, a lot later than I thought I would be here. Because Tweek rarely sleeps he's pretty hard to wake up when he does. That being said I'm able to leave without waking him up, although not without feeling guilty. I'll see him tomorrow at school and I won't leave him. Somehow I won't.

"Are you coming back tomorrow?" Tweek's mother asks me as I'm getting ready to leave.

I pause for a minute, sigh, then continue pulling on my jacket. "Yeah," I say, "as long as that's all right with you."

"Of course it is," she says, thoughtfully. "Even though you aren't who I would have picked for Tweek to hang out with, if it was my choice you know, he picked you. And, I have to say, Craig, he's always better when you're around. After you two became friends, all those years ago, he really did get better, even if it doesn't seem like it." She smiles at me, but I don't smile back.

I don't say anything; I just walk out into the cold night. I don't go home or anywhere, I just keep walking without a destination. I have a lot to think about.

**A/N**: This chapter almost didn't get uploaded. My mom caught me watching Matt and Trey making out (lulz at awesome movie moments) and she _freaked _the fuck out and shut down my laptop and took it away. Luckily I had already saved this to my ffdotnet documents and went to the library and uploaded it. I'm cool, I know. It also made me realize that Matt and Trey would find me insanely creepy. Oh well. :'D  
Review; let me know what you want to happen from my question before and all that good stuff, mmkay?  
Until next time, tweekers.


	7. Like A Moth To The Flame

**Addict**

**A/N**: You should know a few things. First off, I had to retype this entire chapter. Word for word. It's on my laptop but my laptop has no internet. And I could have waited a week or so to get this chapter to you. But I retyped it. All because I wanted to get this chapter out. So, you know, a review might be nice in return. Secondly, read the author's note at the end of this chapter, it's important. Third, this chapter takes up almost directly after the end of the last chapter, so you might want to read the end of that and connect the two since this update is late. Late, late, for a very important date. I've had too much coffee this morning, sorry.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings**: Talking about death and suicide. Remember kids, suicide is never the answer and neither is talking to Craig about it, apparently.

**Chapter Seven**: Like A Moth To The Flame

It's not often that I sneak back into my house, but on the rare occasion that I do, I really don't. Because the second I walk in the door my mom throws me back out and, by now, I've learned not to fight back. I just let her see I'm alive and then let her kick me out like she doesn't give a fuck if I'm breathing or not. I'm not one of those kids who had fallen into an everlasting pool of angst because his mom doesn't care enough. In fact, it's not that she doesn't care enough. She just doesn't care. Not _enough_, she just doesn't. And I could care less.

My friends are envious of this and I can't blame them. I would probably feel the same way. Things are a lot easier when I don't have to explain myself. When punishment consists of spending a night somewhere other than home, I have no right to complain. Most people my age would get in trouble for doing that. At the same time though, it's really not as great as it seems, at least I know it won't be right now. I'd much rather spend a night at home, in bed, thinking things over, than outside in the lowest temperatures our town has seen in months.

Sneaking back in is foolish really, and a waste of time, I might add, but I do it anyway. And for a few minutes I think I've done it. I even risk a little 'fuck yeah' when I get to my room and collapse on my bed. But my short-lived triumph is destroyed when my door creaks open and I'm left to peer towards the opening and see the dark outline of my mother, the lit end of her cigarette creating the illusion of a tiny sun glowing in the dark of my house.

"Out," she says, sharply, gesturing with the hand that holds the cigarette, a few sparks of glowing orange embers falling as she does so. I don't respond. This is standard; it's the exact thing that's happened every time I've snuck back in. I'm following tradition, for lack of a better word, so I try to grab a sweatshirt or a sweater, something to change into, because I won't be let back into the house before school stars and I don't really plan on wearing the same clothes two days in a row. "I said _out_," she says vehemently. "You can borrow clothes from whoever you were with."

As far as my mother is concerned I've been out all night at a party or at some girls house. She's angrier than usual tonight, but I guess I can understand why. It's almost two in the morning, a lot later than I've ever come home before. The only thing strict in my life is my curfew, eleven at night, earlier than most of my friend's. Wasted, really, since my punishment usually ends up sending me back to wherever I was before I came home. "I wasn't with anyone," I mutter to her as I make my way towards the kitchen. I figure I can grab something to eat. I haven't had anything since six in the evening yesterday when Mrs. Tweak, a relatively normal mother compared to my own, brought us something.

"No, no, no," my mom says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me towards the door. "You put on shoes and a jacket; I'll give you some money. You get your own food and you deal with it. Out of the house _now_." She barely gives me enough time to put on my jacket before she thrusts a crumpled ten dollar bill into my hand and opens the front door for me. The I'm back out into the cold, flipping my mother off before she slams the door, with only the faint memory of the warmth in my house, which only emanates from the heating system, and not from a family that doesn't really exist.

It's only natural that I find myself at Stark's Pond. Actually, it's debatable as to whether it's natural or just twisted. Because I'll give you three guesses as to why I'm there and if it takes you more than that you haven't been paying attention. I don't know if I'm expecting him to just show up or appear out of nowhere. I don't know how things like death and resurrection are handled. Kenny has been coming back from the dead for years and never says anything about how it really happens, though we've probably all ventured a private guess.

I'm not going to find out tonight, unless he really does just pop up out of nowhere, because that's almost what it seems like he does, just shows up with no good explanation as to how or why. He does, though, have an almost ethereal look about him, glowing, sort of, his blond hair bright as a halo when I look up to see him standing there from where I'm sitting on the edge of the frozen pond. For a minute I suspect he's going to sit next to me, but he just looks down and grins.

"Got some macabre obsession with my death, Craig?" he asks, with a wink.

"You would think that," I say, returning my gaze to the lake. It's glowing, like him, I realize, an effect the moonlight has on the ice. "So you're back then?"

"Sadly enough..." The way he says that, slowing and deliberately, is not very much like I would have expected him to reply. A few moments pass as we just stay there, stagnant, and I'm left wondering if I shouldn't just say something about it. I mean, if he really did kill himself then that's a problem right? He might do it again and again and again and who knows when he'll stop, because he can come back after doing it. I'm not like him, I don't have the need to intervene when it isn't my problem, so I keep my mouth shut and we stair like that, silent, until he speaks up again, cheerfully this time.

"I'm hungry!" he proclaims. I look at him and he shrugs. "Well, I am. And I don't really feel like Poptarts."

As luck would have it, he reminded me that I, too, am hungry and we make our way to the nearest fast food restaurant. Nowhere else is open at this time of night and neither one of us is worried about our figures at this moment, or ever, really, so we wordlessly agree that the shit they call food is good enough to be considered as such at this time of night. Or morning, depending on how you want to look at it. Either way, the face behind the counter is familiar. Our favorite high school dropout, or GED-acquirer as she likes to see it, Porsche Saturn, who should be slapped in the face for having the worst name ever and for being a complete ditz.

She was my first girlfriend, by the way.

"What do you want?" she says, bored, tapping manicured fingernails against the countertop. Here she isn't bubbly and sweet, whereas at her old job at Raisins she was supposed to make everyone feel welcome so they would come back again and people would give her tips. But here she isn't required to do anything other than take out order, press a few buttons, collect our money and then give us back our change. A smile isn't in the deal even if it is part of this place's slogan.

"Oh, God," Kenny says, rubbing his hands together, "it's more like what _don't _I want..." And he spends the better part of the next five minutes pouring over every possibility on the menu until he decides on the most utterly boring thing he can - a hamburger, fries and a shake. Jesus, you would think with all that time he would have at least come up with something original. "Can you do that thing where you make the shake, like, worse for me?" he asks, excitedly.

"Uh," Porsche replies, looking down at the register. "There isn't a button for that."

"That's fine," the blond gives in, with a small, almost weak smile, "just put a lot of salt on my fries."

Porsche stares at him for a long moment before tapping a few more buttons. "Four dollars and thirty-seven cents." Kenny looks at me. I look back at him. Porsche redirects the price at me. "Four dollars and - "

"Thirty-seven cents," I finish, not looking away from Kenny. "I'm not paying."

"Okay," he says, amicably, "then I'm not helping you out."

"Fucking..._Kenny_," I whine. He just shrugs and smiles at Porsche who's watching us with interest now. "Fine. Fine, I'll pay," I concede, fishing the ten dollar bill out of my pocket and slamming it down on the counter. "Give me the same thing he ordered. To go." Porsche takes her sweet time, canceling the original order so she can add my part to it, telling me the new price - eight dollars and seventy-four cents - and then smoothing out the money I gave to her before she puts it in the cash register.

"So," she says as our order is being prepared, "you guys on, like, a date or something?" She unwraps a piece of gum from its foil and pops it in her mouth, blinking at us innocently.

I'm about ready to punch her in the face, but Kenny just leans over the counter and grins at her. "What do _you _think, babe?" he asks, implying a lot more than needs to be implied. It's strange; he's acting as if he knows Porsche rather well, not just in a friendly way either. I wouldn't put it past him to know her very well, but there's something off about the way he acts towards her. Nicer than I would expect him to, I guess, less sarcastic than usual. It's like how he acts around Butters, less admiring towards her than he is to the other blond boy, but still gentle at the same time. Like he owes her an apology for something and he's trying to win her favor back. But that's absurd, utterly stupid, really.

Porsche's eyes light up from underneath all that makeup she still insists on wearing and she nods, snapping the gum before shifting her gaze between the two of us. "Always kind of knew," she says, completely serious.

"Jesus - just give us out food," I snap at her. She blows a bubble and hands me the bag, waving at us with a gloating smile as we leave. "I can't," I begin as we walk out into the cold air, "believe," I continue, handing Kenny his shake, "I used to date _that_." Kenny takes a sip of his shake and raises his eyebrows. Oh, right, I doubt he even knows about Porsche and I. "Seventh grade," I tell him with a short laugh. "Six months of my life wasted, toting that thing around everywhere I went."

He just kind of smirks at me and takes the bag, rummaging around until he finds a handful of fries to eat and then looks at me and gives a simple remark. "I take it you two didn't get along very well?" A few pieces of the fries he's eating land on the sleeve of my jacket. "Sorry about that." He smiles at me and wipes it off before stuffing his face when even more food.

"Yeah," I say, in response to both statements, staring down at the shake in my hands that, admittedly, I don't want very much. All of a sudden I'm not very hungry. "Well, we got along fine when we didn't have to talk." Kenny raises his eyebrows yet again. "Dude, we were, like, eleven or twelve or something, we barely even passed making out," I tell him pointedly. Kenny shrugs and finds his hamburger as we reach Stark's Pond again. Although we never decided to come back here, here we are.

"Sounds like me and Bebe," he says with a grimace.

"Oh?" I ask.

"Oh," he confirms with a nod, easily dropping down to sit at the edge of the pond. I sit next to him and he puts one of his gloves back on for the sole purpose of reaching out to touch the crack in the ice. He sighs and I look at him and he looks at me and he sees the question that's hiding behind my eyes. "Did Butters get upset?" he asks, quietly, tracing the crack in the ice.

"He was crying," I say with a shrug. Kenny stops moving but keeps his eyes on the ice. "I don't really...we don't really know what happened," I admit. "He went to Stan and Kyle and Cartman and they tried to figure out exactly what happened, but they only have the basic idea that you - did it on purpose and that Butters saw you do it. Beyond that it's guesswork. I wasn't there to hear all of it, but from what I understand, yeah, Kenny, he got really upset."

The blond inhales sharply and keeps his eyes down as he speaks. "It isn't what you think. I didn't _mean _for him to see me."

"But you meant to kill yourself," I accuse, although I know it's a pretty bitchy thing to say, "so you knew he would find out. Whether he knew it was on purpose or not, you knew it would hurt him and you did it regardless of that."

"That's exactly _why _I did it," he says, angrily, looking up at me now. "None of you - no, all of you act like it's not a big deal. I die all the time, sure it's the first time in a couple years, but that's not weird. It's back to normal for me, isn't it? What was weird was me staying alive all that time. And don't act like that's not true, because whether anyone said it out loud or not, you were all thinking it. That is was going to happen sometime, that is was just a matter of time before it happened again."

"I - yeah," I agree. It's my turn to look at the ice, to not meet his eyes as I speak. "But you never talk to anyone about it Kenny. Shit, every time someone mentions it you get all introverted and put your hood up and ignore all of us. I hate to be cliché, but, dude, we can't talk to you about something when you're not willing to talk to us. We can't force you to talk."

Kenny lets out a frustrated groan and drags his gloved hand through his hair. "_Craig_," he says, pleading with me, "every time anyone mentioned it - me dying - they made a joke about it. Like it's...like it's funny or something. Like I'm some indispensable person and me dying, regardless of whether it's permanent or not, is something to laugh about. I don't mind people talking about how I'm poor or how I'm not all that smart, but about me dying...?" He leaves the sentence unfinished, but shakes his head, making the meaning clear.

"Then why don't you talk to anyone about it?" I ask, watching as he begins to eat again, staring at the ground between us. "I mean, just pull someone aside and talk about it, we all care about you, as gay as that sounds."

"Right," he says, rolling his eyes. "I deal with everyone's problems. Do you know how many people thank me for it?" Our eyes meet and I bite my lip and he nods. Wordless communication. _Zero_. "So I do all that, and believe me you guys have fuckloads upon fuckloads or faggy little problems. And I watch all of you people all the time and worry about all of you and notice your problems before most of you do. But no one," he takes a deep breath and looks at me, narrowing his eyes, "_no one _notices mine.

"I'm noticing," I tell him. It's a little half-lie. I am noticing, obviously, how could I not, but in the sense of the word, I don't know. I think I'm more listening than anything, but maybe that's what needs to be done.

"Ah," he says. "It's...you know, it's weird, but it makes sense that you would notice. Cartman's too busy making jabs at how poor I am. I'm not close enough to Clyde or Token. Butters is so extremely naive that there's not even a chance he would catch it and even if he did he would never know what to say. I have a class with Tweek and we're friends, but he's too busy worrying about, well, everything else in the world, to worry about me. But then, I guess I always thought Stan or Kyle might..."

"Well, Stan and Kyle, they're...they're, you _know_," I stress the last word, even though I'm not completely sure what he knows or I know or we know.

"Busy with their own shit and so completely absorbed in it that they're to the point that they don't even notice when one of their so-called best friends is practically suicidal?" he asks, grinning at me, morbidly. I nod, though reluctantly. "I don't mean to be so harsh," he explains, "but that is the way it is. I'm not stupid. At the same time, I'm no psychologist. But I know what I'm doing. I got to all of you to help you out with this idea, that even I don't realize half the time, that maybe one time someone will turn to me and say, 'Don't _you_ have a problem? Don't _you_ want to talk about it?' But no one ever does and I can't complain because I don't ask for the help, but I sort of figured by now someone would realize it."

"To be completely honest," I say, looking up at the sky, "I didn't notice. I just needed advice from you."

"I know." Kenny shifts next to me and sighs. "I mean, no offence, Craig, but even beyond the fact that we're not exactly close or anything, you also happen to be completely unaware of how people are feeling. You see base emotions and don't go any deeper than that. I'm sure you can and have, but for you, that takes effort. It would almost be completely hilarious if it wasn't ruining your life." I'm staring at him in slight awe, but he just shrugs. "But that's not what we're here to talk about. You want advice and I need to talk to someone who doesn't care."

"Let me guess," I say with a small smile, "I listen to you talk, I don't react with any significant emotions, then you tell me what to do?"

"Sounds like a deal to me" the blond replies. "And we're talking about this right now."

"Right now?" I ask, hardly sure that three in the morning is a good time to discuss this. But then I remember I'm not allowed back in my house any time soon. The thing is, I'm not all that excited to listen to Kenny talk. If his reputation precedes him, he never shut up. "Yeah, right now," I finally say with a sigh. Kenny isn't really listening to me; he seems to be in deep thought.

"Where to start," he mutters, eyes on the sky. The sky isn't especially beautiful or starlit like most people make it out to be. At least, it isn't to me. It's just kind of there and I take it for granted. Really, it's just the sky and, as far as I know, it's always going to be there. You can't cut it down or set it on fire. Sure you can pollute it and cover it with smog, but it's still there and everyone knows it's there. The sky isn't nice because it's fun to look at, it's because it's always there and you know it's never going to leave.

"At the beginning?" I ask, rather sarcastically, if I do say so myself.

"That's not a bad idea," Kenny says, either not hearing the tone of my voice or just ignoring it. "But I'd rather not go back that far. I think eighth grade will suffice. Or after eighth grade. Somewhere in-between there, I think, it when it kind of occurred to me. You know, the idea of: what's going to happen when I really do...when I die. Because it has to happen eventually."

I make a small noise that _might _be construed as disbelief.

"Oh shut up, it will happen," he says, waving a hand in the air. "Point is. One day I'm sitting there with Butters, hanging out in the bad part of town - the only part worth hanging out in - and it just hits me. When I _really _die, no one's going to know. I won't have a funeral or an obituary. No one will make a eulogy for me. You'll all expect me to be back the next day. And when I'm not - when day and months and years go by, one day, years from then, someone will realize I'm really gone."

Kenny stops, just to breath, because he hasn't been doing that. Words are just spilling out of his mouth in a torrential flood of pure thought. No break between thought and speech, I can tell. "The worst part of it all is when they do realize that, will it matter? By then it will have been years, and even then they'll have doubts." He smiles, but it's bitter, very unlike the Kenny I've come to know, however distant I am from him, I know that smile isn't his real one. "No one will care," he says, finally.

"Yes they will," I tell him. It's not hard to keep my voice void of any emotion. Truthfully I wouldn't care. Not much. And it's not even that it's Kenny we're talking about, it's death in general. I don't understand why it's so upsetting to anyone. Well, I suppose I do understand, but it just doesn't register in my mind. Death is death and it fucking sucks, but sitting around and mourning something that was bound to happen anyway seems seriously pointless to me.

"Don't lie to me," Kenny says, shortly. I sigh and hold up my hands in defense. "We both know that's a lie. And it's not that I'm so sad because no one likes me. It's that after all of that time - it's just that..._why_? Why do I have to...out of everyone...? It makes everyone not care. It's like you flipping people off, it doesn't bother anyone, only worse, because you can still evoke emotions doing that. My death will never affect anyone because everyone will be expecting it to happen but no one will expect it to last."

"Maybe - " I cut in, my voice a little bit too loud, surprising myself at the time I'm using. I'm clearly upset when I shouldn't be at all. But I'm not sad, I'm angry, like always, but there's no reason to be. Not that having a reason has ever been pertinent to my anger before.

"Maybe _what_, Craig?" Kenny asks, equally as angry but, of course, he has a reason to be unlike my unfounded fury. "I'm right and I know I'm right. I did it - I killed myself because I thought maybe I could at least decide that. I could take my life and throw it away and all I needed was a way to do it. So I left school early, of course no one really thought that was weird, I came out here and I waited, because I needed to get used to the idea that I might not come back...and then..."

His hands drop to his sides and he whispers the next words, somehow managing to make them more powerful than anything else he's said so far. "I saw Butters." He leans forward and draws his knees up to his chest, arms circling around his legs. He almost reminds me of Tweek right now. Scared and vulnerable and terribly worried. "And I knew I had to do it. I had been doubting myself and I thought maybe I could go home and really think and not do it. But when I saw Butters I felt the way I always do when I'm with him."

We're silent for a few long minutes, only the sounds of wilderness around us and our quiet breathing. I hear a car in the distance; the sun will be rising soon. It seems surreal that there are other things going on right now. I'm still angry, I still don't know why exactly, but I do know that I'm angry at myself and not at Kenny. Finally I speak. Someone has to, this silence is deafening.

"How?" I ask.

"I don't deserve him," Kenny tells me.

I know I'm seeing the real Kenny right now. Broken.

The sun rises without much ado, we sit in silence, mostly, for the remaining hours before school starts. We go to his house and I borrow a shirt from him. It's worn and threadbare and usually I would make a joke about it, but now really isn't the time for that. Kenny gives me advice as we walk to the bus stop. Wendy Testaburger, a girl I've hated ever since eighth grade, I have to talk to her. I don't want to, but Kenny says to ask her about last Friday, British Literature class and allegories.

I don't know how that's supposed to help me, but I don't have the heart to argue with him right now.

When the bus pulls up to the stop Kenny's back to his normal self and he gives me a wink and pushes me into the seat next to Tweek as he sits next to Cartman. It's odd. I don't dislike Kenny anymore and I'm really starting to doubt I ever did. There isn't some huge revelation where I realize Kenny and I are the best of friends and we should hang out together all the time, just the two of us. It's this subtle shift in the cosmic workings of South Park that means things are going to change.

Tweek is looking at me, almost expectantly, but he doesn't say anything. I smile at him, tired, exhausted really, but he doesn't smile back. He doesn't do anything, just reaches out and takes my hand. I notice, suddenly, that none of them are talking. Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Cartman on one side of the aisle and Clyde and Token behind us. I don't know if they're watching us, but I know it's because of Tweek and I.

"Did you sleep alright?" I ask him, quietly, still smiling.

"After you left," he says in his own brand of whisper, which is just at normal talking level for the rest of us, "I woke up and then I couldn't sleep any more."

"I didn't sleep at all last night," I say. His eyes widen, golden and alive for a startling moment. I hold his hand tighter, reassuring his worries as I shake my head. "Nothing bad, I just had some thing to take care of. What I'm saying is, you're not alone Tweek, we can be tired together." And Tweek smiles at those words, a distant one, but a smile nonetheless. The floodgates open all around us and, slowly, they all start talking again. But it doesn't matter because everything is alright now.

Not for Tweek, no, it's going to take some time for him to get better, I know. But for me, I have my balance back.

* * *

The rest of my day revolves around Tweek. I meet him at all of his classes, sit with him at lunch and walk with him through the halls. The entire time I'm talking, he offers a few words in-between mine. I hold his hand the entire time, ignore everyone's eyes on us and don't listen to whatever they have to say. As far as I'm concerned no one else is of importance right now.

Except Wendy. She's not on my mind until we get to lunch. Kenny's fallen asleep on Kyle's Human Bio book and Cartman has no one else to talk to, so he's just left to glare at me. Which reminds me of yesterday and what I accused him of. I want to yell at him, tell him I was only saying what everyone else was thinking, but I just flip him off and return all of my attention to Tweek.

All my attention - except there's this nagging thought in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. Wendy, who I think all of us had a crush on at some point, is not cut out for a real, functioning relationship. I, luckily, do not know this first hand, but plenty of my friends do. Wendy turns into a bitch after you date her for a while. Oh, I'm sorry. _Allegedly_, she turns into a bitch after you date her for a while. Allegedly. Regardless, she's never once been mean to me, not directly; she's always been nice, if a bit remote, neutral on how to feel about me for the most part. I have no reason to _her _knowledge as to why I loathe her so much.

But in my own mind, I have every reason to and, like Kenny's own story, mine begins in eighth grade, or after, or maybe, somewhere in-between.

Middle school was nothing but hell to me. I hung out with Christophe, mainly, but we didn't even go to the same school. Our own middle school, that is to say, the public middle school, was right next to the private school. The private school had a smaller number of students than even went to our middle school - a feat so great I would have thought it impossible before - but went from kindergarten all the way until twelfth grade.

I hung out with the foreign kids, who consisted of, well, Pip. At the time Gregory had moved away and we all thought he was gone for good and no one had seen Damien since third grade, so Pip, with no crazily evil Son of Satan to follow around, chose me as a replacement. I don't see the resemblance. We were joined by Christophe at lunch almost every day. Our schools had, essentially, the same schedule, except on Wednesdays when Christophe had to go to church and his lunch was an hour later because of it. Naturally, according to him, this was all God's - and God's subsequent status as a faggot's - fault. But none of that really matters. By eighth grade that was all standard and the reason for everything, really, was brand new.

His name was Thomas and I never really liked him. Yet there he was, shaking when I touched him and making outbursts due to his Tourette's rather than irrational paranoia. It was all just an act for me and I was the only one fully aware of it. The only reason I did it - the only reason I did anything in eighth grade - was because I knew Tweek was watching.

When we all drifted apart after the incident before sixth grade began we all had our own little niches to fit into. I was with the Foreign Kids. Kyle dispersed into the company of 'intellectuals,' as he liked to call them. Nerds, really. Kenny and Butters had their own little, odd partnership. Stan had football and Clyde and Token had that and every other sport on the face of the planet. However flimsy middle school sport teams are, the groups they create aren't. Carman had...well, Cartman was Cartman and the best way to describe what he had done was to say he had, completely and fully, become a loner.

Out of all of us Tweek's group seemed to fit him the least. No, it did fit him the least. I still cringe when I though about the Goth Kids, drawing him in somehow, probably hoping that his part in their group would be Free Coffee All The Time. Never mind that Tweek was completely conformist, according to them at least, the prospect of coffee was enough for them to take the twitchy blond who had nowhere else to go.

We hung out at lunch, in-between the two schools and so did the Goth Kids and Tweek who looked horribly of place with them. And everything was alright for nearly three years in the equation of me plus the Foreign Kids divided from Tweek plus the Goth Kids equaling all of us who hung out there during lunch. Until we factored in Christophe's newest, and only, friend at his school. How Thomas managed in a Catholic school with his disability, I have no idea.

All I know is, Christophe found it amusing that his teachers couldn't do anything about it.

Thomas was introduced to me, but it wasn't for the first time. We knew each other, for however short a time, back in elementary school. And he was perfect. A perfect replacement, at least. Someone to make Tweek jealous and so identical to Tweek in mannerisms that he was the only one who came close to being like my old best friend. That was all it was at that age, pretending Thomas was my new best friend and, for whatever reason, getting sick satisfaction out of the fact that it bothered Tweek.

And then Wendy ruined everything.

* * *

"_My muzzer does not like you, Nommel," Christophe told me for the millionth time as he leaned against the side of our school. Ironically he was leaning against a sign telling him it was illegal to smoke the cigarette he was lighting._

_I flipped him off. "Fine, we'll go to Thomas' house, then," I said, grinning at the blond who had an involuntary twitch under my gaze._

"_I have group today," he cried. "Shit!" The latter expletive was ignored by all of us who had gotten used to it over the last few months. Pip, of course, still jumped and said something British that we all ignored. Thomas flushed while Christophe just smiled and took a drag of his cigarette. Thomas was embarrassed of his Tourette's, at least it seemed that way to me. But he had long since abandoned muttering apologies to us all, because Christophe and I weren't bothered by it and none of us cared if it bothered Pip._

"_Well, zere you go," Christophe said, with a shrug. "As always, no plans for any of us. You know zat if you could even consider inviting any of us over you 'ouse all of zis might be avoided, non?"_

"_Yes, yes, 'Tophe, I realize that, thanks," I said, holding out my hand to him. The French boy rolled his eyes but handed me a cigarette and then lit it with one of his cheap, plastic lighters, but barely flinched when I blew the smoke in his face. "You also know that, since he's at home it would inevitably end in me and my dad fighting. Chances are my mom would join in as well. And, hate to break it to you, but that's kind of family time."_

"_I'm sorry zat your family is so dysfunctional," Christophe offered, sarcastically, returning the favor of my earlier actions as he blew smoke into my face. I coughed though, unlike his unwavering response to me doing the same to him. "But," he continued, tapping his cigarette against his finger so some of the ashes fall down to the ground, "zat iz not our fault, nor iz et reason to leave us all bored. My family iz just as bad, non? Why can we not try it once?"_

"_Because I don't care enough to fight with my dad just to have you three over!" I yelled, irritated._

_Thomas' spontaneous yell of 'Cock, shit!' was enough to drag Christophe and I out of the heated staring match we found ourselves in as well as the only reason that I took time to put my arm around his shoulders and take a quick glance towards the Goth Kids and saw Tweek watching us. The caffeine-addicted blond quickly looked away and back to his 'friends' who were, no doubt, discussing how conforming the rest of us were and then planning to all smoke the same cigarettes and get the same coffee when they went to Harbucks later._

"_What iz she doing?" Christophe asked, drawing out attention to the girl who was walking towards us from the other end of the school. It wouldn't have been odd, you know, if Wendy had ever really talked to any of us before. Generally I was ignored by everyone except Pip, who revered me as some sort of anti-establishment god, and God knows no one had ever paid any attention to Pip. Since Christophe and Thomas didn't even go to school with us barely anyone knew them at the time. So, really, none of them had any reason to think Wendy wanted anything to do with us._

_The thing was, though, Wendy had made what could have only been considered a come on to me a few days before. Ever since she and Stan broke up permanently - keep in mind, in the vocabulary of really fucked up couples permanently means 'for a few days or weeks, perhaps a month at most' - at the beginning of the year she had dated most everyone and was not above making passes at the people like us at the bottom of the middle school popularity chart. _

"_Oh, God," I had moaned, using Thomas as a sort of human shield. I'll admit, in fifth grade I had the hugest crush on Wendy, but by eighth grade she was the personification of annoying to me. Her voice, still high-pitched as ever, got on my nerves and I couldn't stand how opinionated she was. Well, not so much how opinionated she was, but how much she had to fight with everyone about their opinions._

_But she didn't so much as look at me. Or maybe she was trying to, but she saw Thomas first. I still find it funny that she ignored Christophe, as he really is a charmer until you hear his angry voice. No, she said a few words to Thomas that I can't remember but that he probably can. Then she dragged him away, past the Goth Kids and Tweek who I know saw the devastated look on my face, because it was that day, because of Wendy, that, for the first time in almost three years, I had met his golden eyes and had seen the hurt in them._

I haven't talked to Wendy since then and now I'm being forced to. To say the least, I'm not excited about it. It's like how people talk about their 'worlds' you know? Like when they tell someone: "Baby, you rock my world," or: "Wow, autoerotic asphyxiation changed my world forever." Yeah, well, Wendy changed my world back than when she stole Thomas and now she's messing up my world again.

My own little world revolves around it's own little sun. And, contrary to what anyone might think, my sun is not cigarettes or lies or flipping people off. It's not even Tweek. It's not anything you would expect my world to revolve around and it's completely secret. My world revolves around a sun of opinions. What people think about me. Even I don't like to think about it or admit it to myself.

But everything I do is concentrated on the idea of what other people think about me. My little world gravitates towards that sun of opinion, it's pulled in by it and it used to stay there, close to the opinions, letting them rule my world. There have always been things that could detract from the opinions, my friends and my obsessions. But nothing can quite pull me away from the opinions, nothing can compare to the distraction of, nothing even comes close to the calming power of being around Tweek.

So it doesn't happen right away. I have plenty of chances to talk to Wendy. During Shakespeare class for example, since Kyle and I are working with her and Gregory for our project on Othello, would be a good time to talk to her. I have plenty of chances to talk to Wendy, but I don't take any of them, not yet, because I don't feel like throwing things off balance by changing her neutral opinion of me. After we talk she'll have to take a stance on me, like I took one on her.

Instead I spend all my time with Tweek. When I'm not with Tweek, I'm thinking about him. And when I'm not thinking about Tweek, I'm probably sleeping. See, even though Tweek gets better as the day goes on, he's worse the next morning. Like being without me for a night is really all that bad. I had gotten him to talk by the end of the day, he was even freaking out about killer bees. Tweek is absolutely sure that a swarm of killer bees is going to attack us one day. He says that since the bus is the same color as the bees they'll be attracted to it or something. It really makes no sense, but I figure, what the hell, him worrying about stuff like that only means he's getting back to normal.

Then Friday morning comes along and it's the same as the day before. Tweek is quiet, he doesn't smile and takes my hand the instant he sees me. It's as if yesterday never even happened as he reverts back to the day before. Once again he's worried about killer bees by the time we get to the bus later in the afternoon. I found out in Physical Education that he is, thankfully, drinking coffee again, although it's decaf. I promise him I'll see him on Saturday when I get off the bus and he gives me a weak smile.

Come Saturday afternoon it's the same, maybe even worse, because he just wants to sit around and watch movies all day. I suggest we take a walk, maybe to Token's house or to the mall in North Park, but he just wants to watch Julia Roberts and Richard Gere fawn over each other in _Pretty Woman_. It's a total Tweek movie. Nothing like reality. I mean, as much as you'd like the enigmatic, outgoing prostitute to get the suave, introverted businessman, it's just not going to happen. And even it did, they wouldn't all be that witty.

Naturally, though, Tweek loves it for all the reasons I hate it. He likes it because it convinces him that something like that is possible, while I hate it because it makes me _want _think something like that is possible. Neither one of us talks through the whole movie, which is uncharacteristic of both of us. Mrs. Tweak makes us coffee and Tweek drinks both his and mine, as I'm not really a fan of the drink.

When it's time for me to leave Tweek doesn't want me to so I don't and I stay over at his house _alone _with him for the first time in years. It's not really that awkward since Tweek doesn't sleep and I stay up until dawn, finally falling asleep when Hugh Grant starts singing _Killing Me Softly _in some stupid British movie that Tweek is enamored by. When I finally wake up, some time in the late afternoon, I'm faced with a few choices.

It's like a multiple choice test. Do I A) Stay with Tweek for fear he'll revert again? B) Talk to Wendy because she'll apparently help me with things? C) Avoid both of my problems by facing another one, calling Christophe who I haven't talked to since Wednesday? Or D) None of the above? I'd really love to choose D, and I usually do on tests, because it's the easy answer.

But I can't do nothing, so I have three choices. Now, on tests they always tell you that one of the answers is impossible; you should get that one out of the way immediately and then focus on the others. Christophe is, here, the impossible answer, because he's been pissed off with everyone since Wednesday and even if I wasn't preoccupied with Tweek I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him.

I'm left with two choices now, Tweek and Wendy. As much as I'd be content with just sitting here with Tweek for the rest of the day, I know it's not the best choice. It's not _wrong_, but that doesn't mean it's right either. On multiple choice tests, it never says to choose the right answer, it says to choose the best one, and right now talking to Wendy is the best I can do. It might change things in my little world, but I'm willing to risk that.

I leave Tweek and he doesn't ask me why. He doesn't say anything, really, when I tell him I have to go but that I'll be back to hang out later, maybe. It's a bit disconcerting that he looks dead again when I leave. I thought _maybe _after a whole weekend he would manage to get better somehow. But even after that he can relapse so quickly and I still don't understand why. I left him alone for a little over a week and it's not that I anticipate him to be better all of a sudden.

It's just, fuck, it's taking a lot longer than I thought it would.

Outside of Tweek's house I find Kyle waiting for me. He's actually sitting on the porch and jumps up as soon as I walk by. I'm walking pretty fast, but he sprints after me. I'm really not in the mood to deal with Kyle Broflovski's , literally, gay problems right now. "Craig, hey, Craig," he calls. Like I didn't see him and I'm going to turn around and be all excited to see his stupid red hair. I just keep walking as fast as I can, which must not be all that fast because the Jew catches up to me within a minute.

"Craig," he says, breathlessly, "I need to talk to you."

"About what?" I ask, not turning to look at him as we come to a crossroad.

"What you said on Wednesday." He grabs my arm as I try to cross the road and, exasperated, I look at him, knowing he won't leave me alone until he says what he wants to say to me. "Christophe and I...he didn't talk to me, he left right after you did," he tells me, looking down and letting go of my arm, running a hand through his hair. Then he looks up and smiles a bit. "Stan, though, he talked to me."

"Oh, good, problem solved," I say, patting his shoulder and walking away.

Kyle follows me though. "No, not 'problem solved,' Craig," I hear him say.

"Then, what, Kyle, what?" I cry, turning around to face him. Kyle jumps slightly; he was right behind me and nearly ran into me.

"I don't..." He falters and flushes and wrings his hands together for a few utterly faggot-esque minutes that seem to go on forever. "I love Stan and everyone knows that. Everyone thinks that we're - that we'd be good together. Even Stan thinks so. But I don't really know what to do. Christophe won't talk to me now and Stan's right there so it seems so obvious what I should do, but it's not, at all, not to me. I've talked to pretty much everyone about it and they all gave me the same answer, but I don't know. I need an honest answer, not anything biased, and you're the only one who's really friends with Stan _and _Christophe, so, what do you think?"

"Where's your hat?" I ask him, some stray thought in my mind causing me to think that this seemingly stupid question might possibly lead somewhere.

"What?" he says, pulling on a red curl and raising an eyebrow. "I left it at...Christophe's."

"There's your answer," I say with a shrug. "You need to stop asking everyone else what to do and just do what you know you have to." This time when I walk away Kyle doesn't follow me. Maybe because he's thinking about what I said or maybe because I give him the middle finger. I have to go ask Wendy Testaburger what to do instead of doing what I know I have to. The day I start following my own advice will be the day I don't flip anyone off.

**A/N**: I have this story finished. I think. I'm not going to post the whole thing at once or a chapter every week or something, I'll do it based on reviews. Especially since, for the time being, I have to retype every chapter in order to post it, which takes a lot of time. The less reviews I get, the slower updates will come. It's not all that complicated really.  
So, review, let me know what you think.  
Woo, just went through and edited that whole thing. If you're reading this post-edit, you are fucking lucky, there were so many mistakes in that chapter. Thanks to you all for putting up with that.  
Until next time, tweekers

* * *


	8. You Forgot To Switch Your Feelings On

**Addict**

**A/N**: I'm proud to present my favorite chapter of this story. Besides the second to last one. But who's counting, right? Anyway, this chapter is meant to be taken seriously even though the end of it is relatively meant to be humorous. You're going to meet Craig's dad. Oh, he's a...lovely. Lovely. Man. Also, more on what happened with Thomas.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings**: Use of drugs. Not just mentioned. Use. Understand that I am in no way condoning the use of drugs, but I'm also not putting down anyone who uses them. Drugs. They exist. People use them. Even fictional people. Shocker, I know. Oh and Wendy. She deserves a warning.

**Chapter Eight**: Your Forgot To Switch Your Feelings On

The weirdest thing, out of it all, is that Wendy looks like she's been waiting for me. I mean it's weird that I'm even going to talk to her and it's weird that I had a feeling she would be here and it's weird that I can smile at her. But what the fuck is Wendy doing in a fucking fast food restaurant at three in the afternoon? She's been a vegetarian since fifth grade. Or a vegan. I don't know which is which or which she is or both. She's drinking a Coke or a Pepsi. Once again, which is which?

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I say.

Ah, silence. It's not so much that it's awkward but it's more like what the fuck am I supposed to say to her. I'm grasping at straws here, literally, because I just ordered a shake from the guy at the counter and I'm grabbing a straw. I had to get up from sitting across from her for a minute so I could think. Wendy, seriously, does not let you think. She wasn't even talking but my mind was about to explode. I sit back down across from her.

Ah, silence. She just nods at me, kind of. It might be a nod, but it isn't really. It's more like a can't-you-go-away-I'm-being-polite thing. As luck would have it my shake is being annoying. I try to take a sip and it simply doesn't work. So then I have to suck on the straw for a while and look like a total retard while doing so, and it still doesn't work. I take off my gloves and stuff them in the pockets of my jacket and that, of course, doesn't help at all, I just wish I had my gloves back on, but I know I would look even stupider if I did so.

"Kenny told me to talk to you," I finally blurt out.

"I know," she says, leaning back in her seat and taking her drink with her in a precarious balancing act that would make Tweek hyperventilate. She blinks at me and smiles like she's some sort of sophisticated businesswoman. One thing about Wendy, she's never worn make-up. Except once, in third grade, I think, but she's never really worn it. All through middle school and even now when some girls build shrines to mascara, Wendy doesn't have a hint of that shit on. Okay, maybe she does, but I can't tell. And it's not that Wendy's a gorgeous babe who doesn't need make-up.

No, she could use some. It would bring out her eyes or something gay like that. But, I don't know, I respect her, I guess, more than most girls because she doesn't buy into that shit. It makes me trust her a little more. It doesn't make me hate her any less. Trust and respect, yes. Friendship, fuck no.

"About, um, British Lit class," I state, sounding terribly idiotic.

"I know," she repeats, taking a sip of her drink while I'm still struggling with mine.

"And - and you know," I finish, biting my lip.

"Tweek," she says, easily, with a little smile. "Kenny told me everything." I want to ask her when she and Kenny started having heart-to-hearts but judging by the look on her face I don't want to know. I never want to know or need to know the dynamics of their relationship. Never. "And the thing is I'm getting the feeling that he sent you with the idea that I was going to solve your problems, but actually, um." Now she's the one who falters a little, settling down in her chair and placing her drink on the table, fake smiles and all. "Actually, I need to apologize to you."

"To me," I say, slowly. "What did you do?" It's funny how I immediately realize, just by looking at her, that she did something, a Very Bad Something. She didn't even have to tell me. I realized it halfway through her little monologue. Wendy doesn't get nervous often, she's pretty in control from what I've seen. But she has this stupid necklace she wears all the time. Stan gave it to her when they stopped going out. Something like 'we'll always be friends, just now I have to be drunk to 'accidentally' have sex with you.' Anyway, she's always wearing the stupid thing and right now she's clutching onto it like she needs it to live, which makes me assume she's nervous.

"Nothing!" she cries, the high octave at which she does so garners some attention from the few other people here this afternoon, but also tells me that it is, most definitely, not nothing. "It was an accident. I have Brit Lit with Kenny and Tweek and we were in a group working on allegorical meanings in Lewis Carroll's poetry and Tweek was being quiet and he's never quiet and, I shouldn't have, but I asked him what was wrong."

"Uh, it's okay?" I say, tentatively. Because, honestly, I don't see the problem here. Only then do I realize that Wendy's not done, she has more to say and she's going to say it, she's just trying to figure out how.

"No," she says, harshly, "that's not it. He didn't answer and then Kenny told me it was because of you, that you weren't paying attention to him very much, or at all really. And I did the stupidest thing. I mean, I wasn't thinking at all. I had just kind of assumed because you were with Christophe all the time and you two seemed so close. I should have kept out of it, though." She's kind of babbling now, playing with the necklace in her hands and blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

"What did you tell him?" I ask, as calmly as I can, getting her to look at me.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, I just, I assumed when I shouldn't have," she says, quickly. "I said something about how people move on and make new friends and that even though you and Christophe were best friends now it didn't mean he was alone." I could probably strangle her right now. I'm angry enough. I know she didn't mean it. But, oh my God. I could strangle her right now if there was no one around. "As soon as I said it I realized it was the wrong thing to say. Tweek kind of freaked out and didn't talk for the rest of the hour."

As much as I would like to strangle her right now, I know I shouldn't. Besides the fact that strangling people is wrong, I mean. It's just, Wendy didn't mean to, but she effectively told Tweek that our entire friendship has been a lie. All through fourth and fifth grade he was so sure we wouldn't stay best friends and by the time I had him convinced that we would, it all fell apart. We all fell apart and and I had to work even harder in ninth grade and tenth grade and _finally _this year I felt like we were there. He trusted me and with one mistake Wendy Testaburger ruined everything.

She always ruins everything.

"Alright," I tell her, keeping my voice steady. She's upset, but I doubt she really knows what she's done. She doesn't know Tweek like I do. No one knows Tweek like I do. "Alright," I repeat, because I can't think of anything to say. "Alright, Wendy, that's alright. I mean - alright. You didn't mean to, it was just mistake, right? Alright."

"Craig," she says, softly, reaching out to - I don't know, touch my hand or something I don't want her to do. I pull away and she leans back in her chair again. Tweek would freak out. I know he would. I know Tweek better than anyone. I thought I knew Tweek better than anyone. He shouldn't have gotten that upset, I knew there was something else. He worries about everything, about killer bees and Godzilla and flesh eating bacteria that you can get from killer bees and Godzilla. You would think that not being best friends with me anymore would be on the bottom of his list, but I've never seen him freak out like this. I must be in the top five.

"I really am sorry," Wendy says, sounding like she really is sorry. Any self-respecting human being would make sure she's kept out of the crossfire, would let her know she couldn't have helped it. But I'm Craig, not a self-respecting human being. I don't let things go. I'm pissed off at her for no good reason. I hold grudges and no matter what, even if Wendy apologizes a million times, I will never like her.

"Are you sorry for Thomas, too, Wendy?" I ask her harshly.

"Craig," she says my name again, firm this time, like she's talking to a child, "I did what was best for Thomas. I certainly am sorry that he moved away, he was nice, but you know he's better off now."

"You didn't start off to help him, though," I point out. "Don't act like you had that intention in the first place."

"Why does it even matter?" she cries, in that high pitched voice, grabbing at her necklace, obviously upset. "He told me you were using him. He knew what was going on! I still talk to him, you know, and he's let it go. You can't for some reason that I don't understand. I've been nothing but nice to you all these years and it's like you hate me or something, Craig. I can't do anything right, I get that, I can't make everyone happy."

"How's he doing?" I mutter, not looking her in the eye.

"He's getting a lot better," she tells me, quietly. "The place he's going to now is a lot more equipped to handle with his Tourette's. Now his dad visits him and his mom got remarried. And he's controlling his tics a lot better. I knew he had to get out of here. This place was a dead end, he just needed the help to talk to his mom about it. I never meant to cut off contact between you two completely."

"That's not why it bothered me so much." Wendy sighs and I know why. I'm leading her around in circles, making her recall things she probably hasn't thought about in years and then I tell her that's not even the problem. "It was Tweek," I explain. "I was using Thomas, you're right, but I was using him - more than I ever realized. Other people build walls around themselves, I had Thomas. Somehow having him around...I could ignore what all of it was doing to Tweek and the second you took that away, I had to face it. I had to face what _I _had done."

"Oh, Craig," she says, with another little sigh. "I am sorry for that. But - "

"I know," I interrupt and she smiles faintly. I still hate her.

But I can't blame her. Not for Thomas and not for Tweek. I somehow manage to talk to her for a few more minutes and even make her laugh a few times. After a while she has to go. Date with Gregory she says with this kind of hollow laugh and a forced smile. I just grin and tell her we should do this more often. She rolls her eyes and leaves with a 'Sure thing, Nommel.' We both know this is not going to happen more often. Unless she decides to screw up more relationships I have. No, I can't blame Wendy. I'd like to, but I can't.

I can only blame myself.

* * *

Blame is stupid. I mean, if we didn't blame anything on anyone the world would work a lot easier. But its human nature, you know. Everything has to someone's fault or we can't rest at night. I think that's why suicide is so hard to deal with for the people left behind. Everyone ends up blaming themselves when someone commits suicide. Because no one wants to look at the dead kid and blame him. When it really is the dead kid's fault, every time. And, okay, that's a little insensitive. But kids like that annoy me. The kids who kill themselves because their dad hits them or their girlfriend broke up with them.

I'm sorry, but, turn on the news and look at a couple of third world countries for a second. The kids there have a million reasons to kill themselves, but, no worries, they have government officials to do it for them. I guess what I'm saying is, you can throw around blame as much as you want, but it doesn't ever actually help anyone. This really makes me a hypocrite, because I blame everyone for everything. But that's not even my fault. We're conditioned to blame people for everything.

So I just blame myself. At least for this one. Things were going fine until I made the oh-so-genius decision of just not seeing Tweek. What the hell was I thinking? Alright, admittedly, I couldn't have foreseen Wendy doing what she did, but I should have figured something like that would happen. And now everyone thinks I'm a jerk. Not that they didn't before, but now it's solidified. Craig Nommel: Jerk. Awesome, I don't fit in with anyone anymore. I'm just a jerk.

Well, that's not completely accurate. Things actually get back to normal, in a general sense. I don't mean normal like all of a sudden South Park turns into a normal town. No, no, no, as much as I wish that would happen everything still stays on it's own little path to being completely fucked up. But, like Kenny's dying is normal to everyone, that's the kind of normal we get back to. I sit with them at lunch, go to Token's for a sleepover after about two weeks, talk to everyone like everything's the same.

The funny part is, even Stan and Kyle are back to normal. They're not groping each other in the locker room or anything. Oh, fuck, they have _got _to be doing stuff when no one's around, that's obvious, but they're just best friends to everyone else, acting like nothing has changed. I ask Stan about it, but he just grins and acts like he has no idea what I'm talking about. Kyle, on the other hand, asks me who told me about it and I just laugh and tell him who. "You, stupid."

What I mean is, nothing has drastically changed. Cartman's still lusting after Wendy who sits across the lunchroom, probably imagining her in a Nazi uniform or something. I bet that's how he gets off. Kenny still steals everyone's food at lunch and spends most of the bus rides giving advice in-between sex jokes. Clyde cries when he fails the Human Bio quiz, Token aces the Human Bio quiz. I do mediocre. Tweek slowly returns to his paranoid self and he's freaking out about witches and ghosts by the time the Halloween dance is coming up.

It's back to normal for us and, hey, it only took a whole month!

There's one thing that's missing and it's not because I didn't go looking for it. Christophe is gone. I don't mean he's on vacation with his mother in France or he's skipping school. He just doesn't talk to anyone. Not Gregory, not me, not Kyle, not Pip, not even Damien and, believe me, I asked. We're in French together and he just ignores me the entire hour. Thanks to Kyle I'm managing an average grade, but I want my French boy to help me out. My fucking French boy, no one else's, it's weird without him. The one person who has, honestly, been with me through everything is now ignoring me over, I can only guess, a few words I said to him when I was angry. It's infuriating. I flip him off whenever I see him, it makes me so mad.

The lack of nicotine is having a startling effect on me, because I can't just get a few from Chistophe anymore. I have to steal cigarettes from my mother. I would try and pass off as 18 if I had any resemblance to someone older than, oh, fifteen. But I don't. My mom doesn't have the same cigarettes Christophe always has and his are my favorite. Not that I know the brand or anything. I just like them because Christophe hands them over. I even went to ask for some one day at lunch, but no one was behind the school.

Kyle got his hat back. I asked him how and he opened his locker to dig out the note that Christophe had left with it. It says a bit in French that I could read but I don't want to. Christophe calls Kyle 'mon cher' and, honestly, it all seems a bit too personal for me to intervene. Not that I'm Craig, Saint of Privacy or anything, but that's just pushing it. Kyle wouldn't talk about it anyway, every time I mention Christophe he brings up something else to talk about.

"Do you think he talks to anyone?" I ask, on the bus. I sit next to Kyle for the brief three seconds I know I have before Stan shows up to join us. Tweek is freaking out behind me because there's a ghost cut-out on the bus window, decorations to get us excited for the Halloween Dance that, oh, about, no one is going to. "Christophe, I mean," I add after a moment that would be silent had it not included Tweek screaming about the Russian government sending ghosts after him.

"I know who you mean," Kyle snaps, not looking at me. Then, in a softer voice, he says, "And, no. As far as I know. I mean, he probably talks to his mom and maybe his brother, but I never see him talking to anyone from school." And that's that, Stan joins us. Less joins us, more tells me to get the fuck out of his seat. I don't argue, just switch seats with Tweek so I can protect him from the cut-out ghosts on the window and listen to Clyde tell us how his house is haunted. Every year he tells the story and every year the story gets more and more dramatic. This year it seems that an entire family was mutilated in his basement and now they haunt there since the guy stored all their body parts there for years. Before he ate them or whatever.

"Jesus Christ!" Tweek cries, staring at Clyde with wide eyes. "How - ngh - how do you _sleep _at night?"

"Oh, they like me," Clyde assures him with a grin. "It's my mom they don't like. That's why my parents split up all the time."

"Sure, Clyde," Token says, rolling his eyes. He's doing Psychology homework, which I will be borrowing from him tomorrow because it's fucking hard, but Token being Token doesn't even look up from it as he destroys Clyde's explanation. "Your parents split up because some ghosts bother your mom? Excuse me, but I have met your dad, and I think it's more because he's a total ass. Besides, why haven't I heard of this before? A cannabalistic serial murderer wouldn't exactly be easy to keep quiet."

"Shut up, Token, dude, you ruin everything that's remotely fun," Clyde whines. "It's not like anyone besides Tweek believed me anyway." Token just shrugs and Clyde punches his shoulder. To be honest, they don't make any sense as best friends. Token's pretty cold and academic. Wouldn't believe a ghost story even if it wasn't shit like Clyde's is. Clyde, on the other hand, believes in them just because he wants to. Like he said, just for fun. I guess they balance each other.

"So there aren't a-any ghosts in your house?" Tweek asks, completely innocent, I'm sure, but Token snorts and turns the page of his Psychology book a little too hard and I flip him off even though I know he won't see me do it.

"No, Tweek, I just made it up," Clyde tells him. "Ghosts aren't even real anyway. It'd be fucking cool if they were, but it's all bullshit people make up so they can make money or whatever."

"Ay! That's not true," Cartman says, breaking into our conversation, like he's been part of it the whole time. "I saw pirate ghosts one time at Halloween, like, a forever ago. It was hella cool."

"Gah. Where?!" Tweek cries, grabbing onto my hand.

"Cartman, you douche, those weren't real and you know it," Kyle yells. And there they go again, fighting about something that doesn't even matter. Kenny and I exchange a look across the aisle, he probably knows whether there are ghosts or not, but he just seems amused by the whole thing. Stan looks upset about it, maybe because the last time we all talked about ghosts was at the funeral and we all try to not think about that, but it could just be because Kyle isn't paying attention to him, I don't know. I stop paying attention after Cartman throws his German notebook at the redhead.

Cartman calls me fag when I get off the bus with Tweek since we're still holding hands, but I just flip him off and stay quiet while we walk down the street to Tweek's house.

"There aren't really ghosts, are there, Craig?" Tweek asks, quietly.

"I don't know," I tell him with a shrug as we walk towards his front door. We stop holding hands while he fumbles for the key. "I've never seen one, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. I don't think they bother people though. If I was dead, I wouldn't want to bother anyone. Maybe some people who made me angry or if someone killed me or something." It seems rational to me, but then again if that logic is true we all should have been visited by a certain ghost at some point. Tweek seems to accept it as fact and lets me take the key from his shaky hands so we can get inside without it taking five hours.

"I think there are ghosts," he says as we drop our stuff off on the couch and go into the kitchen. I let out a little 'oh?' as I start to make coffee for him and search the cupboards for something to eat. "Oh, God, yeah!" he cries, like he's excited to discuss this. Which is strange, since Tweek is so scared of ghosts he won't go to funerals, he was the only one missing out of our group after all. "Not like everyone says, though. Like - gah - you know? Not like they sit around and watch us all the time, but maybe they have their o-own little world or something."

"Yeah?" I say, a bit interested now as I open a box of cereal and decide it's better than whatever my my mom will be making for dinner.

"Well, Jesus, I just think it would be nice!" he cries, like I laughed at the idea. "Y-you know, like after you die you get a second chance. Everyone deserves one. Well - ngh - almost everyone." He's not really looking at me anymore and he's twitching even more than usual. I don't know, like he's expecting something now. I stay frozen for a few seconds, hand posied to reach into the box of cereal. When I finally do so Tweek exhales a long, shaky breath and I do too, I hadn't even realized I wasn't breathing. I laugh a little bit as I eat a handful of cereal. What the fuck is wrong with us?

"So that stupid dance, huh?" I say as he pours the coffee that's finally done into a mug. "How lame is that going to be? Not even Gregory and Wendy are going to that thing tonight." I'm a bit suprised the two of them have lasted this long. Not mad about it like Cartman, who's ready to kill the Brit, but just more shocked. Wendy has never lasted in a relationship this long and I always get this feeling from her that she doesn't even like Gregory much.

"I don't know how lame it's going to be!" Tweek cries, his golden eyes flashing to meet mine. "That's too much pressure!"

"I didn't actually mean that...never mind. Don't worry about it, alright?" I say with a small smile. He opens his mouth, but then just nods and smiles back. Honestly, Tweek is the only person in the world who would actually freak out over something like that. It's monumentally, intensely, extremely adorable. Not that I would ever tell him that, but I can think it to myself while I watch him drink his coffee.

I don't know if I stop thinking or if I just finally let fantasy bleed into reality, it's almost like it's beyond my control, as if some force of the universe pushes me towards Tweek and lets me silence the next sentence he begins to say. "Do you think Jimmy - " is all he gets to say before I kiss him. I don't, like, french with him or anything, I just lean forward and let myself kiss him and then pull myself away. I don't lose control completely, but I wasn't planning on doing it either. He spilt his coffee in the process, on the floor and on my sweater and on his shirt. He stares at me and I avoid it. My mind is basically screaming at me: _What the fuck did you do that for_?

"Jesus Christ!" Tweek finally manages to squeak out. "Don't do that! My parents would kill me and your parents would kill you and then everyone would talk about us and they'd make fun of us and it would be so much pressure, Craig!" He's spilling more coffee, his hands shaking a mile a minute, his eyes wider than I've ever seen them, some mixture of emotion on his face, but his voice truly scared, so scared that I find myself feeling that way just because of what he's saying. "Don't do that!" is all I can hear now.

"Okay," I say, like it's that simple. Nothing else, just okay. I leave without saying anything else, just grab my jacket, slam the door and walk home. It's only until later that I remember Tweek spilt his coffee all over. It's the first time I go home smelling like coffee instead of cigarette smoke. My mother asks where I've been and I don't answer, just go up in my room and lock the door. _Don't do that_ is echoing in my mind.

I've never been shot down before and the first time I am, it's by the only person whose approval ever mattered.

* * *

Needless to say, I'm not entirely excited to do anything for a while. Not entirely excited to think about anything. Not entirely excited to remember anything, either. I just sit around in my room all night. People call my cell phone and I don't answer. I watch more episodes of Red Racer than I can count, but I don't really watch any of them. Halloween is Saturday, but I couldn't care less. People call my cell phone and I think about answering it. Sunday comes and I tell my mom I'm sick to get out of church. My cell phone is dead because I haven't charged it. I don't want to end up the same way so I get up and try to figure out what to do with myself.

It's a little bit crazy, but I know what I want to do. Lysergic acid diethylamide. LSD. Acid. Whatever you want to call it, go ahead, whatever makes you comfortable, like health class when they told us we could call sex intercourse and we all just stared at them. If the government asks I'll pretend I took a little bit too much cough syrup or something. Seriously, though, it's not like I have acid sitting in my dresser drawer. Well, I do, but it's not mine exactly; it's just in my room. I'm holding it for a friend. Or whatever.

It's Clyde's. And mine, technically. Once, during the summer sometime, his cousin gave him a sheet of acid and, we, being the smart young men we are, decided we should take some at noon. Actually it was rather smart because my dad was out of town for the week and my mom was on some Girl Scout field trip with my sister. So that meant we had no one to catch us eating eight boxes of macaroni and cheese and watching _I Know What You Did Last Summer _like it was actually scary.

The best part, in retrospect, of course, was that the killer in the movie wasn't what scared us. It was Jennifer Love Hewitt's hair, for some reason I don't quite remember. I also don't quite remember how we ended up breaking the television or even if it was Jennifer's hair that caused us to break it. All I remember is freaking out when we came down from our high and somehow having the balls to take three hundred dollars out of Clyde's college fund to buy a new television.

The other best part, also in retrospect, and also of course, was that my mom caught us. Came home around eight and found us trying to hook up the the cable box to a very obviously brand new television. Plus if you went into the kitchen you would have discovered a lot of poorly made food. Chocolate pudding for example, with the powder mix hardly even mixed in and macaroni and cheese that we had gotten the 'revolutionary' idea of adding vodka to. Chances are that was my idea.

But she didn't tell my dad. Which was a very, very smart thing to not do. She just cleaned all the bowls up, put extra water in the vodka bottles so he wouldn't notice any of it was missing and helped us clean up the rest of the living room so it looked like she had just done an exceptional dusting job on the television set by the time my dad got home the next day. Trust me, it was a Very Good Thing that he never found out I did acid. And not because I would have been grounded or gotten talked to about the importance of not doing drugs when my mom had just bought a bulk pack of macaroni and cheese. It's just that, well, there are a few things about my father that make drugs totally unacceptable in this household under no circumstances ever even if there is a lot of peer pressure or a girl involved do you understand that young man.

First off, my father hates hippies. I don't mean he never wants me to go to Berkeley and would kill me if I even thought about wearing all-natural hemp clothes and went vegetarian. I mean all that plus he absolutely hates hippies without even knowing what they are. Anyone who does drugs is a hippie to him. Anyone he thinks might know what drugs are is a hippie to him. I'm pretty sure if my family watched movies together and someone did drugs in a movie, he would turn it off and label it hippe garbage.

Now, secondly, my father is one of those Government Conspiracy kind of crazies. Like: "We never landed on the moon; it was a set-up on a soundstage!" And: "9/11 wasn't real; we crashed planes into the World Trade Center on purpose!" And, alright, believe what you want to, that's what this stupid country is about. But his favorite - absolute _favorite _- theory? Oh, boy, I think someone was on acid when they thought it up. LSDs were distributed to 'hippies' back in the 60s and 70s so that the government could go to war without anyone fighting against it.

Well. Okay, there are a lot of fundamental problems with that theory. I don't ever bring them up with him, because I'm treading on thin ice having been created from him chromosomes anyway, and I don't feel like going any further. But I think the point is relatively clear. The point of, oh...my God, Craig should never, ever do drugs and he doesn't even need 'life coach' or Miss Something to tell him about that little secret, does he? That's true and I'm well aware of that.

You could even argue that taking two tabs of acid from the sheet I have, Clyde's sheet - cleverly disguised as a sheet of acid underneath a few pairs of boxers, I _know _- is something I do in spite of all that I know. Like I looked at every reasons why not and in a frenzy flipped them all off. But. Oh. My. God. It's the worst mistake ever and I know it is the second I feel the acid dissolving on my tongue. I still have a few seconds of clarity before it settles in to think, luckily.

My dad has been in...somewhere. Europe or Asia or Germany or Las Vegas. For two weeks on a 'business trip.' He takes them all the time. He's on a trip and I am too. He'll be back tonight so I have to eat dinner with my family or he'll get suspicious. My mom wouldn't care if he wasn't here, I could stumble up to her and ask her for something to eat and she'd make it, she wouldn't want to make it, but she would, because my dad wouldn't be here. Jesus Christ, though, I really want to eat. I'm hoping we put vodka on absolutely everything.

And by now I'm seriously tripping balls. Seriously. I could organize a few Little League games with the balls I'm tripping. One thing is clear in my mind though: make sure dad doesn't notice. As much as it might seem like a nice thing I don't want to get killed by him tonight. It could solve a lot of problems, though. Logically to me, illogically to everyone who isn't on acid right now, a shower is in order. The part of my brain that isn't totally fucked up protests this, but the fucked up part of my brain is in charge right now. A shower could, possibly, wash the acid off of me. That's what we did in Chemistry when someone spilled something on themselves.

Never mind that the acid is in me and not on me, that little fact is alluding me completely right now.

I stand in the shower for a while. I'm proud of the fact that I manage to get my boxers off, but my shirt has pretty much become part of my skin so there's really no hope in getting it off. I'm fascinated a bit by the water that's coming from - somewhere. It must be raining, which is rational; it's raining in my house. We must be having construction done. Maybe a whole new extension of the house where I can wallow in pity.

I leave the bathroom against my better judgement, because my father is home and starts banging on the door telling me I've been in the shower for an hour. It's only been five minutes but I'm not going to argue with him while the walls are changing color. That's way more than I can handle right now. I manage to change but my hair is soaking wet and, for the life of me, I don't know how to make it dry.

When I do make it downstairs to the table where my family is waiting my father congratulates me, sarcastically. I'm pretty sure my mom knows something is wrong. I wonder if she notices it too. The fact that the chicken she cooked is still breathing. "What is wrong with you people?" I mutter as my father pulls a piece of chicken off savagely and rips into it. Dead as the chicken might appear to be, it's still breathing, in and out, just like us. I just might have to become a vegetarian. I'm already a hippie anyway.

"What are you talking about, boy?" my father asks as he chews on the still very much alive chicken. It sounds like he has an English accent and it's positively grating. He might as well have called me 'guv'na.'

"Craig, are you all right?" my mother says in a calm voice that tells me she doesn't care either way.

"The chicken!" I cry, probably sounding like a madman to them. My sister is staring at me disapprovingly. She looks just like my mother. Oh my God, maybe she _is _my mother. That would not be good. What am I? Amish or something? That makes sense, they believe in polygamy don't they? Holy shit, I'm Amish. Somehow I manage to collect myself. "The chicken," I state, staring at it, "it's chicken." It's a profound statement, in my mind.

"Yes, it is," my mother tells me. Either she's very naive or she's very good at acting like she is. Or she's not really my mother and someone switched places with her. If the latter is the case it is a superb costume, very nicely done. But then, aren't we all wearing costumes? Just figments of our own imagination. We all wear masks every day; we have no idea who we really are, because slowly we become that costume. The costume is us.

It takes me a moment to realize I've just mumbled all that out loud, albeit quietly, and that my family is staring at me. "I need to be alone," I say, standing up. I don't wait for anyone's approval. Not even my Uncle Joey who, by all accounts should be in jail right now and most certainly shouldn't be under the kitchen table. I'm sure my mother had completely figured out I'm under some sort of influence. My father probably has an idea as well, but doesn't want to admit it to himself. And my sister probably thinks I'm going insane.

I think my sister would be kind of right.

In my room I search under my bed until I find Stripe's abandoned cage. My old guinea pig, he died when I was in sixth grade. Lived a while. For a guinea pig I mean. I neglected him after a while, forgot to feed him. It got worse and worse until we went to Florida to visit my Grandparents over winter break and I left Stripe behind for two weeks. Realistically, he was going to die soon anyway, but I freaked out and never did let my mom get rid of his cage.

It's kind of nice, you know. To just sit there and wonder what it would be like to live in the cage. To be completely dependant on everyone around you with basically no free will. I kind of feel like that right now. I'm in a cage called South Park and whoever it was that was taking care of me just said 'Whatever, dude' and left to go see his grandparents in Florida. "I hope your grandparents die," I tell the empty cage.

I probably could fall asleep now. But, no, that's not like me. I have to go in the kitchen, sneak out like a spy, like I'm back in fourth grade playing with my friends, for a box of cereal and orange juice. I eat the whole box and down the whole carton in less than five minutes - in what feels like less than five minutes to me, at least - and then I find my cell phone. I have missed calls and new voicemails and text messages, but I don't pay them any attention. I don't know why I do or even if I really mean to or if I forgot to take him off speed dial, but I call Christophe.

Christophe doesn't have a cell phone so he just picks up his home phone and says, "Bonjour." Which, at the time, is extremely hilarious. Come on, who says hello in French?

"Oh my...dude, you will never guess," I say to him, my own voice sounding weird as I reach out to the empty cage in front of me, "you will _never _guess what I'm doing right now." For some reason I can't reach the cage. It keeps eluding my grasp and that is also very funny. "Bonjour," I mutter to myself as I listen to Christophe sigh on the other end of the line and, still, the cage won't let me take hold of it.

"I zink I 'ave a pretty good idea," he says, stonily.

"Bonjour," I say, a weird laugh that is not my own echoing out of my mouth. "Try me."

"Drugs," he responds, like he has a personal vendetta against the word.

"Bingo," I say, falling over in hysterics. I hear the French boy sigh and then a door slams and he's breathing differently. "You're outside, I'm coming too," I tell him, jumping up. A bit too quickly, I nearly fall down but manage to grab onto my dresser before I hit the floor.

"I am coming over to your 'ouse," he says, slowly. "Do not leave, Nommel, do you 'ear me?"

But I'm already outside. Without a jacket and wearing shoes that are dangerously close to falling apart, but outside nevertheless. I tell him as much and he sighs again. "You're doing that a lot," I say. I doubt he knows what I'm talking about. "Let's go to church," I add, like it's a brilliant idea to go to the House of God when I have LSD in my system that might almost be starting to wear off a little and while I'm wearing boxers in the middle of the winter. For a second I even think I hear the voice of God.

"Why in ze world do you want to go _zere_?" Not unless God has recently acquired the voice of a cynical French teenager. "God iz a cocksucker."

"Maybe he'll give me a blowjob then," I say and, for the first time in my life, I giggle.

"What," he says, angrily, "does zat amuse you?"

"Yeah, you know, it kind of does." I've stopped in front of Tweek's house. I can see the light on in his room. It's seriously calling to me. I mean, the light is fluxing towards me, like a rainbow of colors. It wants me to go to Tweek's house, but I'm not done with Christophe. "I mean, what I mean is, I mean." I'm off to a good start, because Christophe sighs again. "All you do Christophe...Christ...Jesus Christ. All you do is talk about how much God fucks things up. Maybe it's you."

"Excuse _moi_?" His voice is quiet and low, even angrier than before.

"Maybe you're the cocksucker," I tell him, my eyes still on the rainbow in front of Tweek's house. Suddenly I hear the shrill beep that lets me know I've been hung up on. I yell out a few words that I don't comprehend and throw the phone down in the snow, backing away from it, the shrill sound imbedded in my eardrums. I'm almost sure that I hear someone call out my name. Like maybe Tweek went to his window and saw me and decided now he could talk to me.

But if it is Tweek I don't stick around to find out. I run down the street, covering my ears with my hands, trying to wish away the sound. When I reach the church I find that the door is open. I think they have midnight service or something. There's an old lady lighting a candle for the Virgin Mary. I walk up like I'm going to do the same thing. But really I'm staring at Mary and wondering how she stayed a virgin that long. I'm no expert but even guys in Israel had to be horny sometime. Or wherever it is that Mary was from.

The old lady keeps glancing at me, all nervous. I smile at her but I imagine that I must look like I'm a smiling creep on drugs. Only worse, since I don't even have pants on. There's an altar boy setting up things or putting things away or practicing one of the two. Whatever altar boys do, he's doing it at the altar. He looks bored out of his mind. I want to go up to him and tell him I'm on acid right now. I don't think he would tell Father Maxi, he's probably just ask me where he can get some. In my underwear drawer, I would tell him.

There are two confessional booths in the back of the church. One is used all the time. The other one, I found out while I was dating Porsche, is rarely, if ever used. Mainly because no one ever confesses sins in South Park. We'd seriously have to have a town meeting if that happened because some of the stuff people would be confessing...I can only imagine the penance that would be doled out. Kyle would be spared. Stupid fucking Jew.

By now I'm already in the useless confessional, leaning against the grate that would seperate me from the Priest if there was one in here. All of a sudden I'm exhausted and the stained glass window next to me is swirling like tie-dye. I'll have to tell my father that, he would get a laugh out of it, then call me a hippie. Yeah, by my father's judgement I'm a hippie now. But, and they always told us this in church, the only judgement that matters is God's. In which case, I'm screwed.

"What a cocksucker," I whisper as I close my eyes and slip into unconsciousness.

**A/N**: lol lame melodramatic scene that I had to write. Yeah, LSD. I would have warned that it was only LSD, since it's not heroin or coke or anything, but I didn't want to ruin it too much. Anyway, although I do sort of 'nothing' Wendy, like I honestly don't care about her either way, but I do want to make it clear that the poor thing may have messed things up, but she didn't mean to. So, no Wendy bashing. None. I know it almost seems like I'm bashing her in the story, but Craig doesn't like her and hold grudges so I can't portray her entirely as I would like to. Welcome to the wonderful world of character perspective limitations.  
Now, if any of you are confused about what happened with Thomas, let me know, I can explain it further to you, but I think it's pretty clear what happened and why it upset Craig so much.  
And yeah, Christophe has a brother. Who is a semi-important third tier character. Or something.  
Something that made my day! I seriously laugh every time I look at it. Go to Wikipedia and look up slash fiction, then look at popular pairings. I swear to God, I was not expecting Stan and Kyle to be there, but, dude, they are! So weird.  
Speaking of which, I actually have a Style fic, a long oneshot compared to my other one, up now, so check that out if you want to.  
Long Author's Note, Jesus.  
Remember, the more reviews I get, the quicker I get the chapter up.  
Until next time, tweekers


	9. We Do What We Do

**Addict**

**A/N**: This chapter is mainly set-up. Not much happens but a lot of it is important. I'd especially pay attention to Christophe and some things that a certain Son of Satan has to say. Both are important and so is the author's note at the bottom. Thanks for all the reviews for the past chapter, by the way.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

**Chapter Nine**: We Do What We Do

Waking up in church isn't as bad as I thought it would be. I'll have to write Father Maxi a thank-you note, like I used to for people who got me presents on my birthday. Most priests, upon finding a seventeen year-old young male who spent the night in a confessional without pants on, would do one of two things. The first thing I won't get into, because not even I want to think about it. The second would be to get very, very angry, call my parents and somehow have me excommunicated. If they even still do that. Father Maxi sees me stumble out of the confessional around seven in the morning and basically acts like 'Oh, goodness, Craig, is that you? Better get off to school!'

Father Maxi isn't stupid. He doesn't think I accidentally fell asleep in the confessional and it's nothing to be worried about, it's just that he's that special kind of smart, the kind that skips over most adults. He doesn't want to know why I was there and he'd rather pretend to be ignorant to the situation, which works out better for both of us. I don't have to explain myself and, likewise, neither does he. Because, you know, I'm not above accusing him of doing something illegal to me just so I don't get in trouble. I'd do it. I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Despite what happened over the weekend I plan on Monday being a good day. Most things don't go according to plan though, so I don't trust this to work out. Worst case scenerio, Tweek told Clyde or Token what happened and they told everyone else and now I'm some kind of loner. I can do that, I can walk around like I don't care and smoke behind school. I'll become the badass loner that no one messes with. I don't want to be him, but I will. It looks like that's where I'm heading if you consider the way my day is starting off.

Let's recap. I woke up in church after taking LSD. I am not going to brag about that to anyone, because it was a stupid mistake. Quite possibly the stupidest mistake ever. Now, I can't go home. I don't know what time I left at last night, but I remember, just barely that it was dark out, not pitch black but the time was settling into night. I'd say it was between nine and ten at night. And I never went home. I can't just waltz into my house to chance, even though I want to because, once again: I am not wearing pants. Somehow, more important than any of that, is the fact that I am starving. I could eat several cows and I'm almost tempted to since there probably are some roaming around the area.

I can solve that, though, without eating any cows. Since my basic plan is to walk to the nearest bus stop, sans pants because I can't do much about that until I get to school, my options for food are limited. Still, there is that Chinese place that no one goes to. I don't know how the guy stays in business, but the food must be alright although I know it's not the cheapest food I could possibly buy right now. The pocket of my hoodie holds a pretty nice surprise though. At some point last night, one of those points that has been lost to me, I attained my mother's credit card and although I hardly look like my name is Renae Nommel, I figure the Chinese dude won't know any better. And he doesn't, he just tells me to have a shitty day.

"Don't worry," I tell him. "I will."

I wish that when I got on the bus I could just get away from Tweek and sit with someone - Christophe, I guess, would be my only option. But he's not, seeing as the last time we talked I essentially called him a cocksucker. That won't be easily forgiven unless I go crying to him, and that's one thing I won't do. I have nowhere to run and after a few seconds of nearly having a seizure trying to figure it out I end up sitting next to Tweek and giving Cartman my food. I'm not hungry all of a sudden, and usually I wouldn't give the food to the fatass, but I make him promise he'll share with Kenny.

However, Kenny is skeptical once the bus picks him up and he sees the food. "How old is it?" he asks, peering into the bag. For all he knows it could have been sitting under my bed with Stripe's cage since July. I shrug and he does the same. "Aw, fuck," he says, "it _looks _edible anyway. Thanks - wait, why aren't you wearing any pants?"

"Yeah," is all I reply with, my voice monotone. He raises his eyebrows but I give him a look that clearly reminds him where we are. On a bus. Surrounded by people. People who would be more than happy to eavesdrop on every problem I'm having and then spread the word throughout the student body. Besides that, he's right, I'm not wearing any pants and although no one else mentions it I know they all want to. Kenny's the only one with enough balls to do so.

Tweek and I have normal conversation. By 'normal' I mean Tweek thinks gnomes stole all my pants and I don't say anything to discourage that story even though I normally wouldn't let a lie like that - indirect or not, it's still a lie - be told to Tweek. I mention that my birthday is soon. It's actually almost two months away but conversation isn't coming easily right now, so I'm bringing up whatever comes to mind. Tweek makes a point of freaking out about this, apparently having only two months to get me a present is way too much pressure. I don't complain, the fact that he's even worried about it means I didn't screw up too bad.

The thing is, Tweek doesn't hold my hand. He doesn't even touch me. Not that we used to touch all the time, but little things like running my hand through his hair or even just accidentally brushing our hands together - that's all off limits. As if holding hands will make me really aroused and I'll jump him during lunch because I simply can't handle it anymore. It hurts to know he's thinking that, and I know he is, Tweek is the only person I know that would actually think that through and decide that, yes, I would jump him. I know there's a chance I would, but it's not like I wouldn't regret it later. I may be impulsive, but I have the basic human emotion of regret.

What sucks most is the fact that it changed everything without changing anything. I'm sure Tweek and I are still best friends, there's no doubt in that, but it's not the same. We can't touch because suddenly that's not friendly and Tweek is afraid I perceive small things like that in a more-than-friends way. That's the worst. If I was a jerk to Tweek I would ditch him right now, because I know he thinks of me differently because of what happened between us.

I'm not a jerk to Tweek though. I think he's the only person I'm nice to and though it hurts to know he sees me differently now I'm not going to change that now. I meet him at every class, I walk him to his locker and I sit next to him at lunch. I even make him come with me when I get pants from my gym locker before school. Who knew I had foresight into events like these? It drives me crazy though. I don't mean crazy like Kyle is _so _crazy about Stan, I mean crazy like, oh my fucking god if things don't get back to normal I'm going to go crazy.

Everyone notices it. How Tweek and I are carefully separated. Like we're two countries and there's a considerable border between us. We sit next to each other in lunch and that's all I can sat about that. We might as well be on the phone for the amount of distance there is between us. Kyle and Stan are being Supreme Couple Moderators and they watch us in that holier-than-thou way. As soon as lunch ends they completely ambush me and pull me down the art hallway. The art hallway at Park High is no man's land.

"What happened?" Kyle asks, like he's the authority on my relationships.

"Did you guys fight or something?" Stan asks, same tone as the redhead. I feel like this is an intervention in one of Tweek's movies and they're going to tell me how to fix things without hurting his feelings.

"Uh," I say, raising an eyebrow, "since when is this not my problem? I can handle it on my own." Okay, fine, that was bullshit, and even I have a silent laugh at that. I never handle anything on my own, ever. I tell myself I will and sometimes I try to, but I always fuck things up so bad that I need someones help to pull me up and fix things. So I'm not exactly surprised that Kyle and Stan just look at me blankly. "I can handle it...without you guys," I rephrase.

"I think we know a thing or two that could help," Kyle offers, all business like. I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled forms and a pen out of nowhere and told me to sign on the dotted line.

"Yeah, um, Kyle, I don't need any advice on how to give blowjobs in the bathroom before Phys Ed and make sure no one notices. I'm sure that's working out wonderfully for you two and all, but it's just not my thing," I state, blatantly. The two of them blush, Kyle more so since there are a few stray people getting to Ceramics or whatever they teach down here. "I know it's exciting and all, but just because you two are fucking doesn't make you the authority on relationships. I mean, thanks, but, God, _no _thanks."

"We're not...doing anything like that," Stan tells me, although I don't believe him for a second. Kyle looks embarrassed enough to stay quiet, so Stan's taking over. "But we are best friends, we have been for years and so have you and Tweek. So, yeah, we know a bit at how that works. Maybe not actual relationships, but best friends, yeah, we know about that. Believe me, it's going to suck balls if you lose your best friend over something like this." I could make some lame joke about sucking balls, but I don't.

I just sigh and then say, "Well, _what_, I have to get to class in about two minutes, so what wisdom can you instill in me during that time?"

"Talk about it," Kyle says, excitedly, finally breaking his vow of silence. "You won't get anywhere if you don't talk about it."

"Wow," I say, dryly, "gee, thanks, Kyle. I could have just thought about it for a while or watched a few sitcoms, but thanks for wasting my time with that one." Though, I have to admit, I really wasn't planning on talking about it with Tweek. I thought I might wait for a few days. Or years. Like when we're both married and Tweek's kids are covered in bubble wrap so they don't die and mine are breaking everything in the house. Give or take a few years, I would eventually talk about it, but right now? I wasn't planning on doing that right now.

"Seriously," Stan says seriously, "you really should." Then the first bell rings and they have to get to class. No tardies tarnishing their perfect little angel records, I bet. I don't even remember what class I should be going to. I watch them walk away all...stupid and in love and not wanting anyone to know it. It's so desperately obvious and almost sickeningly sweet, how their hands are right next to each others and they want to hold hands but they never do. I bet they'd jump each other in the lunch line and never regret it.

Then I see Christophe. It's not like it's the first time I've seen him in a month. He's been around, ignoring everyone, doing everything alone, smoking more than ever or so I've heard. I never really paid attention to it, which is horrible of me. I know he still cares about me, he was going to come over to my house while I was on acid for fuck's sake. For most other people I'd have to imagine he would have bitched at them and then hung up. Or maybe that's what he did to me, in a roundabout sort of way.

I watch him go to his locker and turn the dial. He's late for class, but so am I, there's a teacher eyeing us wearily, he'll tell us to get to class in a few seconds before the late bell rings, but he doesn't have to do anything right now. I just stand there and realize I'm not watching Christophe at all. It's kind of scary to know it now, to see that over the past month he's been steadily slipping into this. This is why being Christophe's friend has always been risky business.

He doesn't even look at me when he walks past to his next class, even though there's barely an inch between us. He's still wearing those stupid fingerless gloves and the shirt that he burned a cigarette hole in. He apparently cannot get a grasp on the fact that camouflage pants are not meant to be worn, but rather to be burned. I bet later he'll go smoke a cigarette, alone, reading French poetry. I wonder how long he's been the Mole and why it took me so long to see it.

It's scary, knowing he hates me.

* * *

If I had to describe my family in one sentence it would be: we have living room. First off, I don't know why I would ever have to do that. Secondly, I don't mean by house standards. I don't know how you distinguish between a family and living room, they seem like the same thing to me and I don't see much difference when someone has both and insists on seeing them as different rooms. To me, they're the same thing, the living rooms just tend to be a little nicer and the family rooms almost always have a television.

I guess that kind of gets across the same point, but my family effectively has only one room that could be considered a family room or a living room. And it's definitely a living room. It all steams from my dad. What I mean is, we're not a family and it's my dad's fault. I don't mean that we don't have family movie nights or whatever, because whoever buys into that shit is a total retard. It doesn't matter how much time you spend with your family. Either you like them and you go out of your way to be around them or you hate them, realize this fact, and stay the fuck away.

My family is in that special third group. The wonderful one that consists of us all hating, yet tolerating, each other and not spending more time around each other than normalcy requires. It all stems from my dad. Or father if I'm pissed off at him, which is a lot of the time. The relationship I have with my father is tentative at best. I'm not sure how to treat him and the same goes with him for me. I was kind of surprise kid, you know, the kind of child that knows his parents considered an abortion.

My parents are not interesting, but I like to pretend they are. It's one of my best lies, one of my stupidest two. Who they are and how they met and all that sort of stuff. Parents are supposed to be like, they're supposed to tell you some grand story about how they fell in love and how great it is to be together and you're supposed to not care and want them to shut up. The problem with my parents is they don't care about one another very much. They're just two people who happen to be married, my lie just spices things up a bit.

The lie comes from Christophe a little bit. His mom is French, obviously, and when I first started lying in middle school I thought that was cool. Never mind that my dad hates French people, in my lie he married one. My mother 'is' a French dancer, she used to be well-known - under a different name, of course - until she broke her ankle and couldn't dance anymore. I think I saw that in a movie one time. And if it was in a movie, well, that means it could happen, right? So that's my mom.

My dad is from England. Not really, of course. In reality my dad grew up in Fairplay, which is about ten miles from South Park, but he's English as far as my lie is concerned. When my mom broke her ankle she got fired from her dance company which was in England, even though she's French. It's a bad lie, I'll admit, it's one of my first. At this point it gets kind of fuzzy, I've told a few different versions of it and they all go in different directions but end up at the same place. Me, of course. Somehow, some way, my dad knocked up my mom. After they got tea and scones, I guess, whatever English people do.

There they were, two poor Europeans and they did the only thing they could think to do. They moved to Colorado. When I told Token this story I don't think I got past 'my mom is French,' because immediately he wanted to know what had happened to her accent. Luckily for me I was telling Token the story in ninth grade and by that point I was a liar extraordinaire, so I scoffed at him and explained that she still has the accent, she just hides it. I said it like he was a retard for even asking the question. But Token, being the smart asshole he is, asked my mom about it and of course she had no idea that she was ever a French dancer or that she had some sort of ankle injury.

Then we had a little Talk about how it's not alright to tell people that she's French, it would upset my father. We had a Talk when I got home from school today about how it's not alright to leave the house at nine at night and never come home, especially if I'm not going to eat the chicken she spent hours making. Then I told her it doesn't take hours to make chicken and she told me to go to my room. I did so gladly. She often forgets that I have a television in my room.

The point is, I don't know my family. I would much rather that my dad was English and worked for Scotland Yard and had a drunken one-night stand with a French dancer who turns out to be my mother. God knows why they would have moved to Colorado, but if that was the story, I would accept it. It would mean that at some point they had felt something for each other. Call me a fag, but I think that's pretty important. I think that there are some people who just aren't supposed to have kids, especially if they aren't in love with one another. Things don't work out that way.

I know what happened too. I know my parents. They met, they somehow dated for a short time and, had my mom not gotten pregnant they would have broken up through a chain of friends. Like Wendy broke up with Stan in fourth grade, someone would have went up to my dad and told him: "Thomas, Renae wants to break up with you." And that would have been that. But my parents, as much as they might not like each other, as much as they might not be cut out for this parenting thing, they stayed together when I was born. If nothing else, I can admire that.

But we aren't a family. Everyone knows we're not a family. Ask anyone who has ever spent dinner with us.

"If you kids don't have school tomorrow, there's going to be hell to pay," my dad says to his mashed potatoes. He says things like this all the time. He doesn't mean he's going to beat us or something if we don't have school, he's not like that. Well, then again, if he knew I did drugs he'd be pissed off enough to hit me or something, but mostly just to get the hippie out of me. It's not as if I'll be walking into school covered in bruises one of these days, telling everyone I'm fine when I'm not. That sounds like one of those Lifetime movies my mom watches, not my actual life. He means the school will have hell to pay because: "Back in my day, I walked back and forth to school, two miles in all sorts of weather."

"I walk sometimes," I tell the corn in front of me.

"You do not," he says, gruffly. I hear my mom sigh and look up to see her adding mounts of salt to her mashed potatoes. I wonder if she's committing slow suicide. One day she'll just drop dead at dinner and the doctor will ask if any of us noticed her in-taking large amounts of sodium chloride. "What I mean is, they're trying to say the buses can't run in this weather but I walked to school every goddamn day for years and I wasn't in a bus and nothing ever happened to me."

"Honey, how about we just eat, hmm?" my mom asks my dad while she's staring at the salt shaker. I bet she used up all of it and now she's trying to figure out how to somehow fill it up so none of us mention the fact that she's being a salt fiend. She says the word 'honey' like it's venom and it's not so much a polite suggestion as it is her telling my father that he is going to either eat the food she made or next time it's going to have the added ingredient of poison. She would do it too, she's just that kind of a person. "How was school today, Craig?"

Filler conversation, it's a good thing, it comes in handy at the dinner table. Every day she asks this question. I think about my answer more than usual today. How do I explain today? Tweek being right next to me, but feeling like he was miles away, Christophe officially being the Mole now and Kyle and Stan dishing out advice to me when they're the ones who need it the most. "Normal day," I tell her, pushing my corn into my mashed potatoes. The worst part is, I get no rush of happiness when she believes me, because that was the truth.

"How about you, Millie?" my mother says, turning to my sister. My mom isn't about to win any parenting awards, that's true, but she's great at pretending to care. Okay, that's unfair, really. I'm harsh towards my mother because she isn't as invested in my life as other parents are. In other words, if I died she would plan the funeral and go through with it and maybe even cry a little bit when they lowered me into the ground. But it would all just be an act. Somewhere, in that black hole she calls a heart, there's this bit of love for me, I'm sure. But love and caring, while related, are two different things, and as far as I'm concerned, she can love me without giving a fuck about me.

My little sister just shrugs and pushes the food around her plate before she actually gives an answer. She, like me, realizes what's going on here, knows that this all just a little act we put on to amuse each other. She's twelve and really not all that little. She just seems like it compared to other girls I know. More worried about the color of her nail polish than her Shakespeare grade, I guess. I think she's going to grow up to be like Bebe. If Kenny ever touches her I will kick his ass. That's all part of pretending to be a family. "It was alright," she says, shrugging again. "I hope we don't have school tomorrow."

"Oh my fucking God," I say, under my breath. No one looks at me because Millie's words have had profound effect on my father and that has had profound effect on the rest of us here at the dinner table. Our family is some ugly wound on the personification of humanity and my sister feels the needs to throw salt on it, making things way more uncomfortable than they already were. Awesome, I can't wait for the stinging words my father is opening his mouth to say.

"If the weather is so bad that you kids don't have school, I'm not going to be able to get a flight to Atlantic City." Everyone freezes, completely. Millie is staring at her plate, probably silently praying to God because all of a sudden He's of use to her. My mother has pursed her lips and I doubt she'll be eating any more tonight. I am staring at my sister, trying to scream at her telepathically. We almost have him halfway across the country, I mean, he could have picked up a hooker and gotten an STD. Alright, that's being a bit over-dramatic. I don't want him to spend our money on a hooker.

I don't know my father does for a living. If I made an educated guess I would have to say he's someone who ruins people's days. Maybe he travels around to all these places and wherever everyone seems a little bit too nice, a little bit too happy, he flys in and acts like a dick to everyone and ruins it. I don't see him having very many other skills. But really, I think he gambles, when I consider where he travels to. Las Vegas, Atlantic City, anywhere that he can fly cheap and make good money. That's what I like to think. He's probably a traveling salesman, but gambling is much more interesting.

Basically, I'm not close to my dad. My sister isn't close to my dad. My mom sure as hell isn't close to my dad. And it goes on throughout out all of us, but stems from the fact that my dad is rarely home. We're all just people sharing space to live in and nothing more, and my father barely even does that. There's a calendar on the side of our fridge. It has pictures of cats. Not because anyone in my family likes cats, but because it was twenty-five percent off on New Year's Eve. The cats don't matter though. It is kind of annoying to be marking something down, only to look up and see a cat in a pumpkin outfit, but that's the the point.

The calendar ties us together by pulling us apart. Besides cats being tortured and forced to wear costumes in order to appease calendar-buyers, there are X's on at least half of the days every month. I'm always the one who turns the calendar to the next month, because nothing that pertains to me, save my birthday, is marked on there. I'm the only one who has time to do something like turn the page of a calendar. Amidst the X's there are little notes about when Allie has practice for ballet or when her next recital is. And the X's, they take a week here, a weekend there, wherever there's an X there's a day that my father is staying in a hotel. And wherever there isn't an X he's staying at one too, my house is a hotel for him, we're just people he puts up with until he goes to the next place.

What I'm trying to say is that the prospect of my father not going to Atlantic City is so bad that we're willing to go to school tomorrow as long as it means he won't be here when we wake up. I'm willing to say that we would go to school over the weekend if it meant he would leave for a week longer. "Oh," my mother finally assures us, "oh I've heard it's not going to be _that _bad." She pretends she's saying this to my dad, but she's saying it to all of us, herself most of all.

"_I _heard it is," Millie says, stabbing at her food, stubborn. I have half the mind to stab her.

"Shut up," I hiss instead. She flips me off. I flip her off, my mother sighs and my father throws down the silverware and leaves the room. After flipping us all off, of course.

"Normal day," my mother says, as she stands up and begins to clear off the table. Yeah, normal day. My father is in the living room, watching some manly show like This Old House where they build everything by hand and wear flannel shirts all the time. Or maybe some cop show where they beat people up for no reason and tackle half-naked prostitutes in the street. Either way I go to bed hoping it won't snow too much overnight. At some point in-between sleep and awareness I realize that it's not even a living room anymore. It's just a room.

* * *

I don't believe in religion much, I mean, besides the fact that I've seen Jesus at the grocery store, but someone heard me hoping last night. It snowed tons, just enough to the point where Kyle's mom would complain if they let the buses run, but not a full out storm so my dad's flight still went as scheduled, meaning that when I wake up he's halfway to Atlantic City. Plus, my mom made waffles. They're the worst waffles ever, I half believe she stuck the mix in the toaster or something because they don't taste like waffles should, but it's a fucking snow day so what do I care? Millie calls me a pig and tells me she's too old to make snow angels in the same breath.

I am, on the other hand, not to old to make snow angels. It really shouldn't be that exciting for me, since snow is normal for South Park and I could do this any day of the week if I really felt like it. But snow days are a rarity and it just gives me this little boost of energy and I feel like a little kid again. I make a few in the backyard and then remember that snow is wet and go inside to change into dry clothes and try to figure out who to call. Clyde hates snow, he'll be moving to Florida when he can. Token will want to study, and I never want to study. Kyle and Stan are not an option, they'll be alone by being together. Cartman's name doesn't cross my mind and Wendy's does for a little laugh.

I'm left with Kenny and Tweek. I guess, really, Tweek should be the first person I think of. And he is, he's just the last person I want to hand out with right now. In fact, when I think of him I fall onto my bed and remind myself to _not _think of him. I stare at the ceiling until all I can think about is the word ceiling. Then I think about Kenny. Kenny. We've become...two people who tolerate each other better than used to. Friends, in our own right, but that's about it. I've never actually called him and besides he'll be with Butters or Cartman. But, what the hell, it's worth a try.

I might even get a little Talk To Tweek pep talk from him if he wants nothing to do with me.

Our phone book is buried underneath old issues of Cosmo and gloves without their match in the bottom of our closet. I don't have Kenny's number, so this is my best bet. The phone book is huge and conceited, boasting: 'Greater Denver Area Phone Book' this and: Yellow Pages that. There are six McCormick numbers. I end up calling one guys who sounds like he's high, another who sounds like he's about to drop dead from old age and a girl with a nasally voice - as if I'm one to talk - who says she has a cousin named Kenny. That's a big help.

"I think I called your cousin," I tell him when I finally get the right number.

"Wait, was she a slut?" he asks, like that's a natural question.

"Was I supposed to know she was one over the phone?" I shoot back. He snorts at that and I know he's shrugging. I can tell already that Kenny is one of those people who forgets you can't see what they're doing on the phone. The sort of person who would nod in answer to a question. "Hey, uh, I know this sounds gay or whatever, but do you want to come over or something?" As soon as I ask that there's silence and I frantically want to take it back. If I was a superhero my power would be rewinding things and having a chance to do it over again. It would help me a lot.

"What, can, like, no one else hang out or something?" he asks. I don't like his tone of voice, it's pretty quiet and out there, like he almost doesn't believe me.

"I don't know. I didn't...call anyone else." I'm testing out the words, saying them really slow. Like I'm checking all of them to make sure they're important enough to be said. I don't know why. It's not like Kenny can pass some final judgement on me based upon what I just said. I feel pathetic, caring this much about what someone thinks, but I do. Especially Kenny, and I don't know why that is. Kenny likes everyone and I guess the idea of him not liking me would make me feel shitty. But it's not that important. Hell, I'm asking him to hang out, not asking him to marry me.

"Oh," he says. "Not even...Tweek?"

"Especially not Tweek," I say, realizing that's the truth. I'll call anyone, hang out with anyone, be around anyone except Tweek. I'm avoiding him because of, I don't know, fear that it will be like yesterday. Empty and hollow. I don't like that, I wish I could go back and change things but I can't and it really is stupid. I'm running away from my problems, clinging onto other people. But I don't know what else to do with myself. Right now would be a really good time to have those superpowers. I would rewind all the way back - to fourth grade. Before everything became complicated.

I think I'm about to have a nervous breakdown.

"Fine," Kenny says after a long moment. "I'll meet you at the railroad tracks."

He hangs up before I can say anything else. Which would have been nice because Kenny has to walk out his front door and, awesome for him, there are the railroad tracks. I live across town and it's going to take me a good twenty minutes to walk over there. I've walked farther before, but still, these are the times that I wish I had a car. Walking through a couple feet of snow in five-degree weather is not my idea of fun, but neither is getting a job to pay for a car. Maybe I could work with Porsche at the fast food place. We'd both love that.

I'm not the kind of person who screams. I mean, I don't usually get scared enough to just yell for the purpose of yelling. Normally I don't get freaked out enough by anything to just do that. Nothing really surprises me any more, not in slasher movies, not at haunted houses, or any of that shit. There is one exception to this though. When the Son of Satan pretty much appears out of nowhere and grabs my arm, then I scream. Loud too, kind of girly, one might even say.

"Jesus Christ!" I manage to breathe out after a few seconds, flipping him off in haste.

"He won't save you now," Damien says with his creepy grin. The worst part about that statement is that he's serious. It sounds like a cheesy line you would see in your run-of-the-mill horror movie, but Damien is one hundred percent serious and I can tell by the way he says it.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, honestly confused. Damien doesn't actually go to our school. He did back in third grade or something but our high school has this thing. One of your parents has to be involved in something pertaining to school. My mother, for example, has chaperoned at the past three Homecoming dances. Everyone loves her, she lets them smoke while she does the same. But as for Damien's Father? I can hardly imagine Satan being on the PTA, I'll put it that way, all though he would throw one hell of a prom. Pun intended.

"Looking for Pip," he explains with a little shrug. That's why Damien hangs around this town. Figures that the one person he would fall for is the last person anyone would expect. It's just the kind of shock factor his dad would go for, maybe being a dramatic faggot runs in the family, who knows. I just start to walk away, because as far as I know I'm not Pip and I no longer have any connection to the outcast Brit, so I can escape unscathed. But Damien follows me. "You haven't seen him, have you?"

"No," I say, turning around to face him. "Can't you, like, use your Satan powers to figure out where he is or something?" That was a little ridiculous. Damien doesn't have Satan powers. He has some sort of thing going on with his mind, but Satan powers sounds like some sort of weird show that would get cancelled after one season. He uses his powers a lot less now, just to fuck with Cartman at times, and no one really minds that. I think he's either bored with us or, more likely, we're all bored with him.

However, he is melting the snow, making it easier to walk through. Every step he takes is accompanied by the snow melting all around him at a rapid pace so that the sidewalk is almost completely uncovered. I know he's doing it for no reason other than the simple fact that he can. It's not fair, Damien gets superpowers and I can't even have a real nervous breakdown. "That would be rather nice," he remarks, in a tone that implies he's thinking of implanting a GPS chip into Pip. "I'll have to talk to Father about that. But as of right now all I know is that he is not at home, not at the school and almost everyone has no idea where he is."

"Go ask everyone else then," I say. "You should know where he is, he's practically your pet after all."

Damien's eyes glow at that, as if there's a fire behind them. "Well," he says with a shrug, "it doesn't matter anyway. I think that he's at the church."

"How odd," I say, a smirk on my face. "It seems that the love of your life has decided to go to the one place in the world you can't magically teleport to. I think he might be trying to send you a message." At least, that's what it seems like to me. Quite honestly I don't see how their relationship is anything but a forced one on Damien's part. Pip always has been easy to manipulate, simply because he wants people to like him, but has very few redeeming qualities. As much as he might like Damien's attention, I doubt their relationship is all that pleasant.

"I would shut up if I were you," Damien growls at me. He is a bit scary, really, when he talks like that, but I have to try not to laugh. Just because I've always found it a bit pathetic. The fact that he's so wound up in his life that he thinks the rules of life don't apply to him is hilarious. And, maybe, some of the rules of life don't apply to him, but he can't just act like a douche to everyone and then wonder why no one really likes him.

"Thank God you're not me," I mumble, meaning for him to hear me, pretending I don't want him to.

"You know, I could get my Father - " he starts to say. stopping mid-stride. Ironic, isn't it, that we're right in front of Pip's house now.

"What, you're going to get him to kill me, Damien?" I ask, sarcastically. "That's wonderful, because you know what that will do? It's just going to remind everyone that you're a pussy who hides behind his dad. We're not in third grade. None of us have an once of respect for you, you know that?" Not the smartest thing to say to the Son of Satan and, fuck, does he look pissed at me for it. "Not even Pip," I continue because I'm a complete retard, "you've just something how dragged the poor bastard into your life and he obviously wants out of it."

"No he doesn't," Damien says. But I'm already walking away so I just act like I can't hear him. "No he doesn't." Damien is suddenly right next to me. I hate my life. "You don't know anything about us, so don't pretend like you do," he tells me, all serious, like this actually matters to him when I know it's just a joke, something he's playing around with. "I know how you feel about the Tweak kid. And don't try to tell me that if you could just make him love you, you wouldn't do it. I know you would, Nommel."

That hits me hard. Really fucking hard. Because, okay, he mentioned Tweek and that only serves to remind me how I fucked that up. And he know how I feel about Tweek. _Damien _knows. How fucking transparent am I that Damien knows? Then, he called me Nommel and everyone knows only Christophe calls me by my last name. So he said that just to be spiteful, although I wouldn't expect any less from the Son of Satan.

I'm almost to the railroad tracks though, so I just flip him off and walk away. He could follow me if he wants to, but he doesn't want to. I don't know where he goes. Maybe to look for Pip or, if the Brit really is at church, to wait for him. Maybe he goes to see his dad and complain about, I don't know, everything in his fucked up life. I don't really care where Damien goes or who he talks to though. It's not my problem.

Kenny is waiting at the railroad tracks. He's basically giving his popsicle a blowjob and winks at me when I roll my eyes. "Isn't it a little cold for that?" I ask, looking down at the railroad tracks. You know, like trains actually come through our town. I don't think I've ever seen a train, but I'm not exactly known for paying attention to anything even when it's as obvious as a train. Kenny just shrugs and throws the popsicle stick into the snow.

"You look, um, tired," Kenny says, although he clearly wants to say I look like shit.

And he would be right. I won't argue with that one. I would up, ate some waffles and played in the snow like I was a kid again. I just flip him off and pull my hat further down over my messy hair. "So do you," I tell him as we start walking down the road. Walking in the middle of the road, actually, because no one is driving through town. You would think that some people in this town would spring for snow tires, but then you remember that our town is full of idiots.

"Well that's because I haven't been sleeping much recently," he says, kicking at a chunk of ice and sending is skidding down the road. I stop walking for a second because the tone of Kenny's voice implies that the reason he isn't sleeping is because he's, well, sleeping with someone. "And yes Craig," he says, without even turning to look at me. I can hear the satisfied smile on his voice. "I'm not sleeping because I'm doing other things, but I'm not doing what you think I am."

"Then what are you doing, if you're not having sex?" I ask. I'm used to talking to Kenny when he's giving me advice. Maybe listening to his problems and a sex joke or two. Not this, really. Normal conversation is hard with him. He's that person in our group of friends that has always been there by association and nothing more.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he says, like he's not going to tell me. I know he's going to tell me, mostly because he's not convincing right now, he just sounds all happy and lovey-dovey. "Well, remember like, ages ago, when you came over to Butters' house and I was there?" I do, just barely, but I nod anyway. "That was only my third time at his house and his parents decided I'm not the kind of boy they want hanging around their son. So I sneak into his house in the middle of the night and I don't sleep in either sense of the word."

"I take it that you deserve him now?" I ask, receiving a punch on the arm from the blond. Apparently it's a bit too early to joke about something he said to me in confidence. Hopefully I'll be able to do it in a month or two. It would kind of make my day to be able to do that. Because my entire life seems to be a joke to some people. "That's...nice that you still see him, though," I say, although I don't really care if Kenny's super-happy to be with Butters all night or not. "I'm sure he, uh, appreciates it and all that."

"So what happened between you and Tweek?" he asks, looking at me innocently.

"Did Kyle and Stan unglue their faces long enough to tell you that I'm not following their advice?" I reply, kind of actually wanting to believe it myself. God forbid he actually notices that somethings wrong between Tweek and I even though it's as obvious as the Great Wall of China. Maybe he's looking for something in return. Kenny doesn't usually share parts of his life story with me, so perhaps he wants to hear part of mine. I don't know how much I want to tell him at this point. Tweek and I - what happened between us - is really personal to me, more so than anything else at this point.

"Goodness no," Kenny says, waving a hand in the air. "They don't unglue their faces, Craig, what are you, crazy?" Then he stops and takes this deep sigh that kind of bothers me. I know he's about to say something that I don't want to hear and my first reaction is to run away and smoke a cigarette because that sounds really amazing right now, but it's not going to happen. My mom hid her cigarettes somewhere, I have no money and no legality in the matter and Christophe isn't even Christophe. "But, I know what happened. I talked to Tweek about it."

"You - what? You talked to...why would you do that?" I whine, sounding pathetic even to myself.

"You're retarded, Craig," is all he has to say on the matter of why he talked to the other blond. He kicks another chunk of ice and takes another deep breath. "I've got an idea though. I'm not going to talk to you, or give you any advice or even...you don't exist. You won't exist to me until you talk to Tweek about it." Then he turns around and walks away. And I could run after him and say something and promise him I'll talk to Tweek, but we both know I won't. It shouldn't be that big of a deal, but I think Kenny has become more of a crutch than even I realized. It's weird, you know, that out of everything that I've been going through, that's what finally causes me to break down.

**A/N**: I know some of you probably don't give a fuck about Craig's family, but it's pretty important in understanding who he is and how he views other people and relationships. He sees most of them as forced, since that how his parents were and has a very skewed concept of love because of it. So, while it may not have been the most exciting chapter, this one is important, nonetheless.  
I've been having a really hard time recently. I just started at a new high school today (no on even bothered to talk to me, aha) and I essentially have no friends. That probably makes you guys think I have a lot of time to write. But it doesn't. Basically I have no...drive. I'm completely depressed and out of it and I still have no internet on my laptop so couple that with the annoying task of retyping an entire chapter...it doesn't sound like much, but it's just not easy for me. I'm sorry. I won't even ask you guys for reviews this time, because I feel like that's been so rude of me. It's not a big deal, I'll get up the next chapter when I can. Thanks for sticking with me though, you guys, as silly as it sounds, I really don't have a lot of positive stuff in my life, but yours reviews do make me happy, so thanks for that too.  
Until next time, tweekers


	10. To Get By

**Addict**

**A/N**: This is a Christophe-heavy chapter. So for those of you who don't like him or don't care about him, sorry, but there's a lot of his and Craig's friendship in this as well as his own life. I like to explain why he is how he is. In case you haven't noticed, while this is a Craig/Tweek story it's, in reality, a story about a lot of the boys, not just the two in the pairing. After this chapter we'll get a lot more action between the two and then - well, then you'll see. But for right now, hang in there. And Jesus, this chapter is the longest one out of all of them, I swear, I don't know how it got so long...  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?  
**Warnings and Pairings**: You know these by now, kids, no need to reiterate.

**Chapter Ten**: To Get By

The word 'emotional' confuses me. Typically someone who is considered 'emotional' is very sensitive and shows their soft side to everyone. Shouldn't the word 'emotional' just mean that you cycle through emotions and you're constantly feeling one extreme or the other? If that's the definition of emotional, then that's the definition of me. I don't cry often, I don't break down, not in front of people, at least not when I can avoid it. And now I can't avoid it. The second - I mean _the second _- that Kenny walks away from me I know it's coming.

For a minute I can't move. I'm suspended in time, watching him walk away and then it's all gone. Everything is a big blur of color, like a little kid spilt paint everywhere and everything has been mixed together. I hate myself the second this happens, because I've always been good at not doing this. In second grade when Cartman told me my hat was stupid, in seventh grade when I failed my first test, in ninth grade when I failed my first class. I felt shit at those times and I always wanted to just cry, for no reason other than to just get rid of my emotions that way.

But every time that I've felt that way, I've held back. Until I can get home and take a shower or lock myself in my room. Somewhere that no one will hear me, because I would be mortified if people knew that I got so upset over things like that. I like to get good grades, I like to pass tests and most of all I like my fucking hat. The problem is that everything, right now, has just been thrown in my face. Damien reminded me that Christophe isn't talking to me, I'm sure as hell not talking to Tweek and now no one can help me through this.

Except Christophe and he won't say anything, I know he won't, and he doesn't, when I ring the doorbell and he opens it to find me standing there and crying. No words needed, he lets me in, we bypass explanation and go up to his room. Christophe lives at home even though I know he hates it. He'll be eighteen in January but I don't know if he'll even move out then or after he graduates. He has the money, he has a job, he could get a nice apartment easily, but I know why he stays at home. Unlike mine, his family actually exists.

When I go into Christophe's room I'm reminded of that fact easily. The walls are white, everything is very clean and in earth tones. Nothing would catch your eye if it wasn't for the postcards. I remember being here back in middle school, it was nothing to look at then. Now you can't find a bare surface anywhere. The desk, the floor, the dresser, the windowsill, even the wall for fuck's sake. Covered in postcard after postcard, all of them from one person, Christophe's brother, who his mother affectionately calls Jordy.

It's a nickname for something that I never bothered to learn, and I only know him as Jordy, Christophe's older brother. That's all, nothing more. Jordy was, and is, the favorite. Parents always say that they don't have a favorite and they love all of their kids equally. I think if you smoke it's a good way to figure out if that will be true for you or not. Some people can only stand one specific kind of cigarette and that's it for them. Other people like a few different kinds, they don't play favorites and will smoke whichever they can find. Or, like me, it's simply about smoking and you could care less what the package looks like, it's all about the release you get.

It's the same with kids. Some parents, my own for example, really don't have favorites. We're just part of the routine, kids, maybe they didn't plan on us but there we are and they have to make it work. Christophe mom is as Christophe is to cigarettes funnily enough. Only one is her favorite, and it's Jordy and it's easy to tell. Oh, sure, she loves Christophe and he wouldn't be able to deny it. But, and think about this, if he wasn't her kid she wouldn't want him to be. Jordy is the kind of guy that mom's wish was their son.

He looks like Christophe, except less messy, from what I recall and he's some sort of prodigy in his parents eyes. He's not really, I mean, he's probably smarter than me, but he's not a genius. Christophe says that he just likes it, that learning thing, and did a lot of it. Fluent in several languages, reading well before he started school and understood the human mind at sixteen. I never actually met him. I saw him around when I went to Christophe's house in middle school and Jordy didn't actually live here so even then it was rare that I saw him.

Christophe's mother isn't divorced or seperated from his father, but his father lives in France. Jordy lived in France too, maybe because less people are complete retards there. I'm not sure what the exact reasons are. Christophe would always just rant on about how his brother was ruining his life. And, Jordy, whether he meant to or not, has ruined Christophe's life. Jordy went to church and Jordy got amazing grades and Jordy was nice to everyone. Christophe is nothing like that, and it's not his fault it's just the way things are.

Call Christophe a jackass and he'll probably just ignore you, but compare him to his older brother and he won't hesitate to kill you and hide your body. He's done it before and he'll do it again.

There was a day in eighth grade, near the beginning of the year, that was the last time I went to Christophe's house. His mother has never liked me, she must remember me, but she hated me because I flipped her off. Christophe always thought it was amazing because his mother couldn't actually punish me since I wasn't her son. The thing is that his mother always made a huge deal out of me being in the house, but that day she didn't say anything. I stayed over for a while and left before dinnertime and didn't think anything of it until the next day when Christophe told me his brother was missing.

At the time Jordy had to of been seventeen. And, big deal, people leave home at that age all the time. But Jordy is not just a 'people.' I'm sure Christophe's mother wanted to raise some sort of security alert in France and have all the authorities there looking for him. Most mothers would feel like that, like the world should stop when their kid goes missing, but things didn't stop. Things never stop for anything and nearly six months went by and at some point during that time frame Jordy turned eighteen and Christophe got his first postcard.

The postcards come once or twice a month from wherever in the world Jordy happens to be at the time. They're all addressed specifically to Christophe and that's all I really know. Jordy was smart and promising, he threw it away to travel around the world, he sends a postcard from where he is and Christophe hasn't mentioned him besides the few times that he's told me about the postcards and that's always been in a very detached fashion, in the same way that he might tell me I'm saying something wrong in French class. Offhand, casual and indifferent. Not how you would expect one to talk about their older brother.

Christophe's room is like a museum of postcards of famous places in the world. There are cities, Moscow, Amsterdam, London and Tokyo. The only continent he hasn't touched is North America. There are places, the Parthenon, the Eiffel Tower, the Berlin wall. All in little rectangular, glossy pictures on the front of postcards. Some of the postcards are turned to the other side where you can see Jordy's precise, simple writing, all of it in French and all of it hard for me to read unless I really concentrate. Right now from where I am, on the edge of Christophe's bed, laying down, done crying, I can sort of read one. I can't imagine how disappointing that is. To know your brother only through a postcard or two every month.

_Christophe, _it says, _I am finally back in Paris. I doubt I will be staying long though, as Father said he would tell Mother that he has been paying for all of my trips if I insist on staying in the city for much longer than a week. I thought this would be a nice place to write you from seeing as we used to take vacations here in the summer. _There's another sentence that I can barely make sense of, Jordy's normally polished writing is rushed and I have a headache as it is so I skip over it. _Hope you are doing well, Jordy_. It's dated about two months ago, in August.

That's Jordy, from what I know. Short, to the point and not very detailed. Christophe is his opposite in every way, rambling, almost nonsensical and exaggerated. I can't say that it doesn't bother me, but I also can't say that it does. From the moment that Christophe and I first started talking I knew that he was one of those people that you can't stand to be around, but I've always been around him in one way or another. To understand that, you should know how Christophe found me, or how I found him. It's not like I started sixth grade and had the objective of hanging out with the French kid from the private school.

Reluctant as I am to admit it, there is a certain element to Christophe that makes him something akin to a soulmate to me. A platonic, please never touch me even if it's by accident, soulmate, but one nonetheless. When people talk about their soulmates, they make it into a big deal. Time stopping and everything melting away and only seeing that person. That didn't happen to me. It happened to Christophe. In sixth grade I was innocently miserable and alone, and Christophe was not the former but was certainly the latter.

Lunch is the worst thing in the world when you have no friends at school. I spent the first week in the art classroom since the teacher took pity on me until she wasn't there one day and I was forced to make a choice. Between eating in the lunch room - out of the question, because I would have had to sit alone and there is nothing worse than sitting alone at lunch - and going outside. I chose outside and that's how I found Christophe, standing between the two schools, past the Goth Kids, smoking a cigarette and looking angry at everything. He looked about as angry as I felt.

Then he looked up at me, I later found out he had just gotten his hair cut, bangs only just in his eyes as he took a drag on his cigarette and I looked back, prepared for him to kill me with his cigarette or something. Time didn't stop, but my heart did, from fear. Christophe is the only person I've ever known who actually, honest to God, scares the living shit out of me. Sure, Damien is creepy, but Christophe is a whole new kind of intimidation. So there I was, petrified, and Christophe, of all the things he could have done, handed me a cigarette - my first one - and asked what my name was.

I told him that and what grade I was in before the bell rang telling us that lunch was over. In-between choking on cigarette smoke, I mean. He told me he would see me the next day, I think he touched my shoulder or something, and I called after him, asking him what his name was. He turned around, grinned and told me. Christophe DeLorne, with a wink. Now, I wouldn't want anyone to misunderstand things. Christophe is my soulmate in the way that a 67 year-old woman's cat is her soulmate.

Christophe has always been a friend when I don't have anyone else.

I went back the next day, because it wasn't like I had anyone else to hang out with, coughed over another cigarette and from then on it was Christophe and I. Eventually Pip started following me around - after I punched Cartman in the face, not for the first or last time - and it was us three. Seventh grade was when Christophe really gave up on me and at first I thought it was because I started dating Porsche. That wasn't it at all, although he never seemed very fond of my relationship with her and I don't blame him.

I wasn't very fond of my relationship with her. It was, however, my first break-up that pretty much emasculated me for life. She broke up with me and it damaged my ego for a good year. Kenny insisted I date Bebe in ninth grade, but even then it was never the same. Porsche did exactly what television had taught me to expect. She pushed me away, looked at me for a long moment and told me we had to talk.

What I'm saying is, it wasn't a surprise, but it was still shit. She told me everything she was supposed to. I'm not a good listening and we were better as friends and, worst of all there was someone else. It's not like she was cheating on me, or maybe she was, but that wasn't the point. I didn't give a fuck that Porsche and I weren't dating anymore, it was the fact that she had ended things and me reevaluate myself. Except I didn't decide that I could change and become better and finally have a successful relationship.

No, I became worse, I became angrier and even more introverted and convinced I wasn't cut out for a relationship. And who knows, maybe I'm not. That might be what the world is trying to tell me, that I'm too much of an asshole to ever get that close to anyone ever again. I think I could do it, if I really loved someone. I don't know if I do though, if I love Tweek. Of course I love him, but there's a part of me that thinks it's just infatuation, that I spend so much time around him I've manufactured fake attraction and if that's the case then it will never work out between us.

Tweek and Porsche aside, Christophe gave up on me in seventh grade. I wish the problem hadn't been what it turned out to be, because if it had been as simple as Porsche then maybe my life would be a tinge less complicated. It all had to do with this Jew, with red hair and the stupidest green hat in the history of the world. But that's a large group; I should narrow that down. Kyle. Fucking. Broflovski. I think I stared at Christophe for quite a while when he told me that one and he just kept talking about him.

Christophe saw Kyle and, well, God knows what he saw that captivated him so much. I mean Kyle is...okay, now Kyle is rather attractive. I don't see what's so great about him that he has both Christophe and Stan fighting over him, he's not that great, but I can admit that he's alright. But in seventh grade? In seventh grade Kyle was wearing sweater vests and one Chess Club membership shy of complete nerdom. He wore glasses all the time back then and spent his time reading. I know all this because, out of everyone, Kyle was the one person who acknowledged my existence, and that's where things began.

One day Christophe and I are standing around 7-11, smoking, thinking we're really cool, and Kyle walks by, face in a book and smiles at me and says hi and I say the same. And Christophe just stares, and Kyle leaves and Christophe is suddenly obsessed. Mind you, he knew nothing about Kyle at this point. Well, he knew Kyle, but you can hardly count their history before that point as actually knowing one another. They were aquaintences at best, but Christophe is the sort of person who doesn't think that knowing someone is important. It's not knowing someone, he once explained, but rather _knowing_ it's meant to be.

And it's always been that way, I think. Really, that's why the two of them surprise me so much. Well, why they _did _surprise me so much. Because Kyle always seemed annoyed by the French boy's come-ons and Christophe was always following Kyle around. I always assumed it was a very one-sided thing. That's what Christophe does when he likes you, though, as odd as it sounds. I suppose I didn't notice it because I was always around him as it was and I knew how he felt I've just always chosen not to acknowledge it, even to this day.

Christophe transfered to our school in tenth grade. He always says that he got kicked out of private school, like he did something really hardcore that he can't even tell you about. Truth is, he skipped church one day and they have a very strict rule about going to school every Wednesday. Christophe could sit around calling God a faggot and there was nothing they could do except pray that God struck the French boy down with lightening. Anyway, I remember introducing Christophe to everyone. He had contempt for all of then, except Kyle.

And he avoided us. He found Gregory, who had transfered in ninth grade, and he avoided the rest of us. Kenny, for a short time, was convinced that somehow he and Kyle would end up together and I always thought that was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard. I guess I was really wrong. I knew Christophe still liked Kyle, he was always asking about the redhead when I got a cigarette from him. He knew where Kyle's locker was and, had he been anyone else, I wouldn't have really thought that was weird, but Christophe probably knew his combination, so it was just creepy.

I always kind of got the feeling that Christophe was Kyle's stalker, in a less threatening way than a real stalker, yet just as annoying. That's a mean evaluation though. Christophe spent a few years not even knowing Kyle and then all of a sudden they went to the same school and he had a chance and, well, maybe he freaked out. I don't know, because I never knew he even took the chance, but he obviously did at some point that I'm not aware of. That's my fault, for drifting away from him once I had my old friends back.

"It's stupid," I say, for no other reason than to obliterate the silence in the room.

"What?" Christophe replies, looking at me wearily.

"Crying," I mumble, sitting up, "is stupid." It's only then that I realize he's not the Mole. It didn't occur to me that he shouldn't have even let me inside. He's supposed to hate me right now and since he's talking to me he's just himself. My best guess is that I have something to do with it, but that sounds a bit arrogant. So, yeah, it was probably me. Maybe me, showing up on his doorstep for the first time in years, bawling my eyes out and ringing his doorbell, snapped him our of it. It seems plausible, if not a little embarrassing on my part.

Whatever the cause, he's Christophe and I'm glad he is. "Et iz not stupid if you 'ave a good reason for et," he says. He's not really asking for it, but I'll just pretend he wants to know.

"I don't have a reason, really," I tell him.

"Zen et iz stupid," he decides, easily, like he has the last word in all of this.

But all I say is, "Yeah, I know." And then I reach out and grab the postcard from Jordy that I was reading. It has a picture of Sicily on the front of it. Or a picture of Sicily. I don't know, it says Sicily in really nice, cursive letters. "What does...that say?" I ask, pointing to the part that I couldn't read. Christophe grabs it from me, sitting so that he's next to me on the bed. For a moment I think he's going to hit me or something and tell me not to look at his 'sheet,' but then I realize he's reading over the message.

"Ah," he says, quietly, tracing a finger under the rushed writing of his older brother, "you know zat I miss you." Then he throws the postcard to the ground and glares at it.

"Where is he right now?" I ask, probably getting more into his personal matters than he cares for me to be.

"Last we know he is in Greece and 'eading across the Mediterranean to Morocco," Christophe says. Apparently he has gathered all the contempt in the world and is currently hurling it as his brother in little, biting statements. Not that he's ever thrilled about Jordy or anything, but usually he seems a little sad about it. Right now he simply sounds utterly pissed off. Or maybe he's pissed off at me and not his ghost of an older brother. I'm not sure.

"Morocco yeah, it's always seemed like a nice place to me," I lie, agreeably. Christophe gives me a little look telling me I don't have to pretend to know what the fuck a Morocco is. I'm guessing it's a country or an island or a tourist destination or - something you would go to. Basically, Christophe is just warning me to stop myself from looking like a complete retard. I hate to break it to him, but it's too late for that. "Well, he'll send you a postcard, anyway." Christphe groans at that and gets off of the bed, motioning for me to follow him.

I do, follow him that is, but I get held up by his desk. Off to the side is his shovel, looking like it's been used very recently, not exactly a surprising fact seeing as he's been even more introverted than usual this past month and, I mean, someone had to dig that tunnel by Stark's Pond and it certainly wasn't me. That's not really what catches my eye, however. What I do notice is the letter. Being me I pick it up and carry it with me out into the hallway and to the kitchen where Christophe is simply passing through. I swear if he could survive without eating he would do it.

The letter is from Christophe, to Jordy. It mainly surprises me because I never thought of Christophe as the type of person who would write letters. I though that he, like his brother, was sending postcards. Or Post-It notes. Something that he could just scribble an answer down on and get rid of quick, never giving it a second thought. But Christophe definitely the type of person who writes letters. Three page letters, back and front, in fact. It's dated yesterday so I'm assuming he'll send it today.

"I send et to my fazer," he says, when he sees me reading the letter. "Zen 'e sends et to my brozer and, some'ow, every time, et gets to 'im. And zen 'e writes me back two sentences on a postcard 'e found in some...tourist infested gift shop. At least, zat iz what I zink. But, I suppose I should be 'appy zat he writes at all." Either Christophe has forgetten to sound pissed off at the world in general or he's just given up. I can't be sure which it is.

"I don't understand half of it," I admit to him. I don't, because Christophe writes in a very complex manner. Jordy writes simply, in basic French that anyone who knows a thing or two could decipher given the time. There are parts of Christophe's letter that look familiar, a word here or there, a sentence or two, but it's just fucking, just - _complex_. Christophe obviously puts a lot of effort into his letters. I guess it's sort of represented in how they each choose to correspond. Postcards show you the big picture on the front, you know where it's coming from and what they've seen. You have to really read a letter to get the big picture - and I can't read his letter. Maybe it's for the best.

"Et does not matter," Christophe confirms, taking the letter when I hold it out to him. He sighs and looks over the papers before folding them neatly. "I wish zat - you know, I _wish _I could stop sending 'im ze letters, because I know zat I will not get much in return. I just sometimes 'ope zat he will one time sit down and tell me what iz really going on. It iz probably too much to 'ope for, zough, oui?" He isn't looking for an answer, he knows what it is, so I just follow him out of the kitchen while he sighs like angsty French boy he is.

"You know, I'm sorry," I say as we enter the family room. "For what I said, I mean." It only then occurs to me that his mother isn't there. Christophe's mother would yell at him - in French probably, so I couldn't understand - if she knew I was here. Christophe pretends to hate her, pretends to resent her for liking him less. But he wants her to like him just as much as she likes Jordy. That's why he stays around, why I think he'll always be here until she dies. He would never admit it but the one thing that's important to him is his mother.

"Zat seems like so long ago," Christophe replies, with a shrug, his way of forgiving me. The family room is exactly how I remember it, completely different from my own. Dimly lit with only a few lamps here and there, golden walls that are probably a brighter yellow than they appear to be, a dead plan in the corner that no one bothers to do anything about and a slightly scary picture of Jesus above the equally forboding fireplace. I can kind of see why Christophe hates religion. The one thing that is missing, that you would normally see in someone's family room, is a television. I'm starting to remember why I never liked Christophe's house in the first place.

"Yeah, well, we kind of didn't talk for a month," I remind him, like it's going to make him admit he missed me. Christophe is rifling through the stuff next to the chair I always see his mom in. Reading or knitting or whatever his mother does, I'm not sure, that's the chair she always did it in though. He finds stamps and an envolope stuck into an old book. Just a testament to his family's weirdness that those things are in a book that looks like it hasn't been touched for months. I follow him outside to the mailbox, he stays silent until he's pushing the little red flag up to let the mailman know there's something inside.

"We are talking now," he says. And it sounds stupid, but he puts so much into those few words, it says more than what you would think the words mean. There is meaning behind their meaning when Christophe says them.

"Okay, technically true," I say, ignoring that fact as we walk down the road, taking the words at face value because it's what I always do. "I'll give you that, but, um, Christophe - you look like shit, you know that, right?" Because hd oes. Worse than usual, I mean. This isn't his normal fuck-you look to the world thing, this is like he's defying hygiene. Like maybe he lost his comb and he's decided he's better off without it. I'm not one to talk, really, but at least I'm wearing a hat. You can probably tell I've been crying like a pussy, and I'm not excited about letting the world know, but I follow the French boy anyway.

"I _never _look like sheet," he spits, literally, at the snow, vehement in this statement. I would beg to differ, he's looked like shit on numerous occasions, but we're on thin ice as it is and I'm not entirely worried about whether or not he can admit that he isn't the most attractive guy in the entire world right now. So I just kind of not like I'm agreeing with what he said, when I'm really just agreeing not to bother him about it any more.

"So how have you been doing?" I'm directly behind him, quite literally following in his footsteps. There's something calming about doing it. I used to do it when I was a little kid and I wanted to hang out with the older kids in the neighborhood, stepping into the imprints they made on the snow we were trudging through. I feel that way right now, like I'm a little kid just following Christophe around. He kind of growls at my question.

"I am sure zat you 'ave noticed Nommel, zat I am not exactly doing, ah, wonderful," he tells me. I can hear the clicking of his lighter and I'm reminded of how nice a cigarette would be right now. We handle the exchange quickly and I'm suddenly breathing in the toxic fumes like the cigarette is giving me pure oxygen, I need it to survive and it stops me from shaking like I'm doing. That shaking that threatens to turn into dry sobs if you don't get a hold of yourself in time. Thank God for cigarettes or whoever the hell it was that invented the things.

"Yeah, I've noticed," I say, truthfully.

What he means is he hasn't been himself for a while. What I mean is, well, I've noticed that. I kind of say it like I'm hurt though, like he needs to apologize to me when we both know he doesn't. "In case you were wondering how I've been doing," I say, completely sarcastic, since I know he doesn't give a fuck about how I've been, "I hasn't been much better than you. Well, not that you weren't able to tell from the fact that you had to drag me up to your room while I was sobbing."

"Non, I could not tell," he says, equally as sarcastic. "What _was_ zat about, zough?"

"I told you I didn't have a reason," I remind him, although that's staring to sound a bit false, even when I think about it. "But I guess it's just everything, you know? Right now I don't really have anyone left."

"Not even ze twitchy one?" Aw, man, that's some classic Christophe right there. Notice how he doesn't do the whole you-have-me-dude thing, he just digs the knife in deeper? Totally like him. Yeah, I missed stuff like this. I give him a look that says I do not want to talk about it and he takes the hint. "Well I do not 'ave anyone eizer, so we are, as zey say, in ze same boat. Iz zat not delightful?" We both just kind of grimace. I'm not very fond of boats. Christophe wouldn't have anywhere to dig. We'd probably kill each other.

"Well, uh," I point out, "maybe if you had done what I told you to and talked to your stupid Jew one of us would be happy."

"Point taken," he says with a tiny shrug. "But I am allowed to freak out, you know. And I did. Et iz not so easy when 'e iz standing right in front of you. You would zink zat et would be easy but, non, et iz not. I just ran away from et and, in doing so, let 'im get away. A stupid move on my part, but my choice zat I cannot blame anyone else for."

"You're growing up," I tell him, giving him an awkward pat on the shoulder, "tell me how it feels and maybe I'll consider doing it too."

"Ah, oui, I suppose I am," he relents with a sigh, taking a drag of his cigarette and expelling the smoke out into the air. We're near Kyle's house now and Christophe makes sure we turn left towards town so we don't end up walking near the redhead's home. "I kind of 'ad a stupid idea," he tells me as we walk past 7-Eleven and consider trying to buy cigarettes there.

"Stupid ideas are what life is made of, tell me," I say with a shrug as I try and decide if I look anywhere near twenty-one. I really don't. I'm perpetually going to be stuck looking fifteen and I know it. It's like I haven't changed since ninth grade, inside and out. People say it's cute, you know, since I look a bit younger than most of the guys in my grade, but I have the temper of, like, a college kid. Woohoo, I'm a rebel who looks like his favorite hangout is church. Go me. I hate mirrors. I know I have this perpetual arrogance thing going on, but when I'm this low I start think I'm not all that great. Depression can do that, I suppose.

"We should date," Christophe says, catching me completely off guard as we walk into 7-Eleven, having remembered that, while I look like a ninth grader Christophe can pass for twenty-one, especially since he has this way of acting like there's no reason anyone should think he's any younger. I'm a bit too shocked to even say anything, but he makes me go into one of the little aisles they have set up. Basic procedure, you have to buy cigarettes and something else, not just cigarettes, or they'll get suspicious and card you. "Let me explain," he says, pretending the different flavors of chips are really interesting.

"Yeah, you better," I exclaim, getting the Indian guy behind the counter to stare at us for a long minute.

"I do not mean zat we would actually date," he says, quietly, ignoring my little outburst, "but zat we could pretend to so zat we could each get what we want."

"Was there a marathon of 80's movies on or something?" I scoff at his idea. "Honestly, this sounds like something that Molly Ringwald would kill to have a part in." By now we've picked out chips and we're walking up to the counter. Christophe asks for his brand of cigarettes. The Indian guy looks at both of us and we just glare at him and he hands over the cigarettes. Christophe pays and I flip off the guy once we get outside.

"He did not do anyzing," Christophe says, snorting at my actions as he opens up the new pack.

"He totally thought I was, like, twelve," I explain, "if you had been in there alone he wouldn't have hesitated for a second to hand over a pack of cigarettes, but I barely even look my own age." Christophe just kind of sighs like, well, you can't blame him and I know he's right, but it still pisses me off. Of course a cigarette helps to calm me down a little bit. "Explain your stupid idea some more," I say after a few silent moments.

"Et would make Kyle jealous," he immediately says, like that's really going to appeal to me.

"Oh, yeah," I say, "I can see how this one is working out for _me_."

"Well I do not know, perhaps et will make ze twitchy one jealous as well," he says, smirking as I blush. "We do not actually 'ave to date, you understand. We do not even 'ave to do anyzing at all, we just 'ave to imply zat we are doing zings at ozer times." He says this all very slowly, calculated, like for the past month he's been thinking up this idea for the last month. Knowing him, he probably has.

"Oh, like…oh," I say, suddenly getting where he got the idea from. He nods. Like Kyle and Stan, I wanted to say, but I couldn't. "I guess I could see that working. But it doesn't mean anything and we don't actually do anything, right?" I just want to make sure that he isn't turning this into some elaborate excuse to fuck me or something, because I know Christophe isn't really above doing something like that.

"Believe me, Nommel, I do not want to do anyzing with you," he says with his stupid half-smile. Because we both know if it wasn't for Kyle, he would.

* * *

One time, a long time ago, or what feels like a long time ago, we all skipped school. Together. Like no one would notice that the eight kids who all hung out together just so happened to all be absent on the same day. Kyle was the only one who protested, he had a math test or something like that, but Stan managed to talk him into it. We were in ninth grade and all of us were relatively nervous about it, although none of us would admit it.

Somehow, and to this day I don't know how, Cartman got his mother to let him borrow her minivan. I'm pretty much perplexed by that, I mean, how dense do you have to be to actually let your kid borrow your only car while he's supposed to be in school? And, oh yeah, when he's fourteen and doesn't even have his _license_. Such is the Cartman family though. Letting her fourteen year old son borrow her car certainly wasn't the weirdest thing Cartman's mom had ever done. I would know, I have internet, after all.

Still, Cartman wasn't even the one who drove. It was Kenny who had been driving for almost a year, secretly of course, with his older brother, Kevin, teaching him. Not that Kenny was or is a good driver, but he was the best out of all of us at the time. He's one of those people who lives to be on the highway, going seventy constantly and hating stop lights and stop signs and managing to avoid ever getting into an accident or receiving a ticket.

Kenny was driving, excited as hell that he finally got a chance to show off his driving skills. Clyde was sitting next to him, nearly bursting into tears because he was so sure we were going to get caught by a police officer or something. Token and Cartman were arguing about where to go. Cartman wanted to get something to eat even though it wasn't even nine in the morning and Token had this weird idea that we should do something educational since we were skipping school. Yeah, right, only Kyle agreed with him.

As for Kyle, Stan, Tweek and I, we were forced to sit in the very back, but none of us really complained. Sure, Tweek was practically sitting on my lap but at the time it didn't even faze me. I was trying to calm him down because he thought we were going to crash and the minivan would catch on fire and we would all die and no one would ever identify our bodies. Normal Tweek stuff. Stan and Kyle were talking about something that I only just remember. Stan wanted to get Wendy something and Kyle wasn't giving much in response besides 'mhmm' and 'that's nice' typical stuff for the redhead whenever Stan's once-upon-a-time girlfriend was brought up.

I don't remember, really, where we went. I mean, there's a reason we never skipped again and it doesn't rest solely on the fact that we were all punished when we got home. Kyle especially. I guess I can see now why he was so worried about skipping; his mom's a total bitch about shit like that. I think we might have gone to Fairplay or somewhere else nearby. Kenny had his heart set on Denver, trying to entice us with the idea that we might see gangs or something.

"Yeah, Kenny," I had said, sarcastically, "to top off this wonderful day we could get shot." Honestly, what did he think we were going to do? Hang out with some gang and learn how to shoot people? As fun as that might have sounded to him the rest of us were alright with wherever we went. I think it _was _Fairplay, but that doesn't really matter since whatever town it was, fuck, it was boring. It was basically South Park except ten times bigger.

Nothing that we wanted to do could be done at the time we were there. Eight obviously young kids walking around town was weird enough without us drawing suspicion on ourselves. What I mean is, we couldn't run around and actually enjoy anything like we wanted to because then everyone would know we were skipping school. It was actually really lame. We had to leave around one anyway so we could get back home at a reasonable time and have some chance of not getting in trouble.

We all got in trouble, even I did, mostly because my dad was home at the time and the high school called to make sure I was actually absent. Kyle couldn't hang out with anyone for ages, the rest of us were grounded for at least the weekend. Except Cartman who just didn't get to watch television for the rest of the night or something unfair like that. It had been his idea, too, the fatass. We never skipped again after that, at least not all together and not for quite a while.

The reason I remember stupid stuff like this, though, is that I really miss it. Back when nothing was complicated and we were all just us. Nobody was in love with anyone, except maybe Stan, but he wasn't one to bother us with all his talk about how wonderful Wendy was, he knew we didn't care. We were just eight guys doing really stupid stuff and not caring about the consequences all too much. Now it's like that's all that matters.

Part of me wished nothing had ever changed, but at the same time I know it was bound to happen. It's just that it happened a lot faster than I ever thought it would and it leaves me wondering, what if things had never changed? What if Christophe and Kyle had never met and Stan and Wendy had stayed together and we all just stayed friends and nothing more? Surely things would be a lot less complicated if that was the case. But I have the feeling that things would be a lot emptier than they are now, that despite any hurt the events we have gone through recently may have inflicted on all of us, it will end up being worth it in the end.

Well, that's what I hope, anyway.

* * *

We don't start it right away. That would be kind of stupid and besides, I'm not all too excited by the idea. I'm sure Kyle will get jealous once he catches on to what Christophe and I are implying, he has quite the temper so he might even confront me later, but I'm not worried about how it will affect the redhead, he's not my priority and he never has been, that's Christophe's problem, not mine. The thing is, Tweek isn't exactly the jealous type. I mean, not where it concerns me and romance. Sure it bothered him when I claimed Thomas as my best friend back in middle school but this is completely different. It had nothing to do with romance.

I suppose, for me, it's either going to crush my hopes or bring about ones that could be completely false. If Tweek doesn't get jealous then I'll know he could care less if I'm romantically involved with anyone and that won't just suck balls, it will pretty much be devastating to my simple little mind. If he does get jealous it might just be for the same reason he did when Wendy made her stupid assumptions and told him about them. Then he'll just return to his practically catatonic state and where am I then?

Back to square fucking one, that's where.

So I guess that's why nothing changes the next morning. I sit with Tweek and we have meaningless conversation. He's a bit warmer to me now, like he thinks maybe the kiss thing was an accident, but I know he's still worrying about it even if he doesn't voice his concerns. I don't touch him, at all, because that would probably hinder any progress that he's made concerning this whole ordeal. I can imagine that he would freak out if I went to hold his hand now, which bothers me a bit, because up until my slip up he didn't consider it anything more than a friendly thing. Then again, up until recently, I thought of it in the same way.

Everything is completely normal. I walk with Tweek to his locker then with Stan, Token and Kyle to Psychology, the morning goes normally, until French class that is. Christophe gives me a fucking note. I think my sister passes notes in class; I definitely don't pass notes, ever. But I bet Stan and Kyle do now. We're not supposed to be talking and the room is pretty much silent. I'm supposed to be conjugating verbs but of course I don't really know how to do that.

I decide to open the note and read it, especially when I notice Kyle looking at it in surprise. As he should be, of course. I just kind of grin at him like I know something he doesn't and make sure to open it where he can't read it, leaning over it like it's so secret. It doesn't even really say anything, just something in French that I can't understand and that I know the French boy just put there to annoy the fuck out of me and then it just says we're going to spend a little bit of time during lunch together. Oh, I can only imagine what people will think of that.

It's been a month since I've hung out with Christophe during lunch so no one's going to think lightly of me suddenly taking up that pastime again. Instead of doing my work I just fold the note back up and sigh, like it was oh so important. I'm sure Kyle notices and he probably thinks it's a bit weird but nothing beyond that. You know, yet. I sit there, not doing my work, honestly kind of excited about this now. Maybe I won't even get a reaction out of Tweek but Kyle certainly is fun when he lets his temper get to him, so I have that to look forward to. If he believes it - if he honestly gets upset by this because he _believes _it...it's one of my best lies yet.

Before lunch Christophe makes me go to his locker with him. This means that Tweek is probably wondering where I am and I can't say that I really care. Of course, I do care, but I like to think that he's at least a bit worried. That maybe he's wondering where I am and who I'm with. But he sees me when he walks past with Clyde as they make their way towards the lunchroom and I pretend not to see him as Christophe puts his arm around my shoulders.

Way to be inconspicuous.

They stop at Clyde's locker and I just kind of watch them. Tweek's doing that thing that people do, where they look everywhere but where they want to look and he currently wants to look at me, but won't, at least not directly. "I do not see what you see in 'im," Christophe intones, with a little sigh. "All 'e does iz twitch and worry about everyzing, I find it to be very annoying." He leans in when he says that last bit and I smile a bit, like he's saying something sweet to me. Right.

"Aw, come on, he's fucking adorable," I mutter back, keeping my eyes on the blond. It's the first time I've really said something about Tweek out loud in that sense and it kind of makes me blush and smirk. "He still kind of looks like a little kid. Not that I'm into that shit, but still, it's cute." Christophe just kind of snorts at that. "Don't even," I tell him, "you like Broflovski, who's, like, the epitome of effeminate boys."

"At least Kyle does not look like 'e iz twelve," Christophe says, adding something in French after that, but I don't listen enough or even bother to understand. Tweek and Clyde leave for the lunchroom although Tweek gives this sort of forlorn look at me over his shoulder and I just ignore it and smile at Christophe. Oh, goodness, I am such a tease. "Speaking of Kyle," Christophe says, softly. Things get even more interesting when Kyle and Stan walk down the hallway. Christophe puts on a show for his favorite redhead, like I knew he would.

He grabs my hat and at first I get kind of pissed and flip him off, but he's taller than me and makes me reach for it. I can tell Kyle, at least, much be watching us, or else Christophe wouldn't be doing anything like this. He kind of ruffles my hair and instead of getting even angrier like I have the instinct to do I actually laugh, all coy, like I really enjoy this and let him drag me off to the back of the school. I spend all of two minutes with him, basically just laughing at how ridiculous we just acted and then he lights a cigarette, I borrow a few and I'm off.

I do have a knack for the theatrical, I will admit. I sit down next to Tweek breathlessly, my hair messed up, Christophe still has my hat, and when Cartman makes a joke about how I was with the French fag I just shrug and grin at him instead of defending myself like I usually do. It figures that me not getting angry gets more attention than me actually getting pissed at him. Kyle's staring at me like he's putting everything together. The note, what he saw in the hallway, how I look now, the smile on my face, he knows what it's all meant to mean, it's just whether he believes it or not.

"Where's your hat?" he asks, the words sounding vaguely familiar.

I look up at him and remember, for some reason, a conversation we had over a month ago. I just smile. "What?" I ask, blinking a few times as if I misunderstood him. He starts to glare at me; he knows where this is going. "Christophe has it," I say, looking down at the table with a smile, like I'm actually shy about this or something. I know Tweek is looking at me now, almost in horror, I'm happy to see. The rest of them don't seem to give a fuck where my hat is.

And for a while it seems like Kyle doesn't either. Until he punches me in the face, I mean.

**A/N**: Next time: Kyle's jealous Jewness, sexy wimmenz, sex-starved!Craig, news from Tweek and oh so much more. If anyone was expecting what happened in this chapter, I'll pay you ten dollars. But not really becuase I don't have ten dollars. Lots of Tweek in the next chapter, oh just lots of him. He's making a comeback in a big way, I promise. By the way, I'm so proud of 'Tophe, fighting for his man, yes he is.  
Thanks for 100 reviews, you guys! That made me really happy to see. I usually reply to all the reviews I get, but for some reason I didn't get e-mail alerts about any of them, so I'm sorry I couldn't do that like I usually do. Know I read them all though and appreciate each one. :D  
Until next time, tweekers


	11. I'm Gonna Hate You

**Addict**

**A/N**: So the bit where Craig and Christophe pretend to date. Trust me, that's the most you guys will be getting of the two of them in that sort of situation in this story. And this chapter's all like 'Oh, goodness, _Tweek_, where have you been?' Can you believe that there are only a few more chapters after this one? Chances all this story will be finished before Halloween. Oh that's so scary…I don't want it to end... ;-;  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

**Chapter Eleven**: I'm Gonna Hate You

It all happens pretty quickly. Mainly because I'm not expecting it and it throws me off guard. Normally Kyle wouldn't even try to touch me. He's not that much shorter, but he's certainly smaller than me, relatively weak and doesn't know how to punch for the life of him unless he catches someone who doesn't know he's about to punch them, which is what he does to me.

I do stumble back however and I'm relatively sure my nose is going to bleed at some point, I can just tell he did some damage to it. "What the fuck?" I mumble, hardly even knowing that it was Kyle who just punched me. I'm next to Christophe who was just about to hand me his French homework so I can just copy it, but that's barely registering in my mind. Kyle goes to kind of kick me or something lame like that, but I push the fucker away.

"What the fuck?" I repeat, louder than before. The situation is starting to call for everyone to watch us. Things like this happen far too rarely in our hallways so when a fight breaks out, even a gaywad one like this is going to turn out being, everyone wants to watch. The thing is I don't really want to fight Kyle. Oh, sure, it's sweet and all, I bet Kyle's so pissed and wants to take back his man, but I don't care enough to fight with him about it.

Kyle doesn't exactly say anything. If I was him I wouldn't either. People are watching and if he said anything about why, exactly, he has decided he needs to attempt to beat me up he'd basically be outing himself to half the population of the school and Kyle's smart enough not to do that. I look at Christophe, for some reason, like he's going to help me out with deciding what to do, but he's just watching us, amused almost, and I know he won't help us.

In the mere seconds that I take a glance at the person we're supposedly fighting over Kyle punches me in the stomach. It's a totally low blow, I wasn't even looking. "Cheap shot, Kahl, you stupid Jew!" I hear Cartman yell from our ever-expanding audience. It's nice to know someone agrees with my thoughts. But I still don't want to fight Kyle, I'm really, honestly, not angry with him and I try and tell him as much, but I barely get a word out before he goes to punch me again.

I manage to grab him and push him against a locker and mutter to him, "Don't do this, Broflovski, it's really not worth it. I don't need to lay a finger on you to ruin your reputation." He knows I can kick his ass, but he also realizes I don't want to and the implication of my words and for a minute I think he's given up and we can tell everyone to move along, nothing to see, besides a bunch of fags making a bigger deal out of something than needs to be made. But then I realize what Kyle is going to do a second before he does it. I don't even do anything, just close my eyes and brace for impact.

"You're in love with Tweek, you fag!" he practically shrieks. I forgot, he didn't need to lay a finger on me either. But now I'm angry at him and despite the sea of whispers that are now cascading through the hallway, despite the fact that I see Tweek staring at me, his eyes wide, despite everything, fuck the consequences, just this once, I practically tackle Kyle. I think a few girls kind of scream, but I don't really notice, I punch Kyle a few times and he tries to fight back, but hell hath no fury like a teenager outed in front of half of his high school.

Someone grabs me, Christophe I only barely register, and he has a good grip on my arms even as I try to get away to do more damage to the redhead. Kyle sits up and looks a bit mortified while Stan rushes to his side. I could, I suppose, yell out that they're fucking each other daily and nightly, I could do that to him, but I just don't care enough, so I flip him off which is the best I can do with Christophe holding me back. "Stupid…fucking Jew," I manage to pant out.

"Broflovski, Nommel, counselor's office, _now_." It's our French teacher, Madame Whatever and she looks royally pissed. Our teachers must have been taking bets on who would win and she probably lost. I find it funny that we're going to the counselor's office, but I remember the whole fight program. We need to talk out our differences before we get punished. How very progressive of our school. I wonder how often talking about it ever helps anyone and I have to imagine never.

Some of the other teachers are working on getting everyone to class. Christophe lets go of me and gives me this semi-reassuring, more awkward than anything, pat before giving me my hat back. "Do you zink zat et worked?" he hisses at me as I start to walk away. I look at him, kind of disgusted, but then nod and roll my eyes as he looks pleased with himself. Oh, I bet he is. Not that this worked out well for me in any way, shape or form, but, hey, Kyle got jealous so it's a good day for Christophe DeLorne!

My disgust stays with me as I have to catch up with Kyle and our French teacher. There are a few stray people in the halls. I see Kenny with Butters and he kind looks at me like he's disappointed. I still haven't really talked to Tweek, by his definition, and I'm aware of that but there's nothing I can really do about that _now_ so I can't be worried about it. I need to stay in the moment or something gay like that, deal with things as they come at me.

I'm pleased to see that we're talking to Miss Something, and she looks completely different. She, like, reinvented herself, or got a makeover or something. You wouldn't even believe it if you saw it. She's like one of those hot teachers you kind of want to bang but that you'd never admit to anyone that you think about them that way. She has on a skirt and strappy sandals and a button up shirt that's not buttoned up all the way. Kyle doesn't so much as glance at her. Apparently he's totally gay. I, on the other hand, am not above giving her a second glance.

Good _God_, she's a completely different woman now. She's smiles at both of us as Madame Whatever, who is even angrier than that time Christophe taught Kyle and I to swear in French, tells her that we were fighting. Miss Something takes control of the situation, says that she can handle it and pretty much pushes Madame Whatever out of the room before closing the door behind her. "Well, she certainly was persistent, wasn't she?" Miss Something says breathlessly as she sits down across from us. Her desk is clean as compared to the last time I was here.

"She can be like that," I say, getting mildly comfortable in the chair and smiling at her, charming as I am. Kyle looks ready to puke and it's not just because I punched him in the face seven times.

"Do you want a tissue?" she asks me. I stare at her blankly for a few minutes, only registering something about tissue and that her new haircut suits her really nicely. I bet she's a total lesbian. She seems like the type. "For your nose, Craig." I realize my nose is bleeding and accept the tissue with a sheepish grin, like, oh my gosh, how nice of you to offer, how about we kick Kyle out and get down to business?

"Now," she says, "I know Craig from earlier this year and – and I know Kyle somewhat, I believe you talked to me about college?" Kyle nods, blushing red. Oh, yeah, I bet they talked about college. I wonder where he's going. Harvard or Yale or somewhere like that, wherever they have kosher food and breed geniuses. I'll be lucky to go to community college with my grades, and I hardly doubt my SAT scores will help any. "And I talked to you about…," she says, facing me for a moment, apparently drawing a blank.

"I was smoking at lunch," I say, unabashedly, batting my eyelashes at her. Yeah, I'm sure she's real enticed by my seventeen year-old antics. What I catch I am for Miss Something.

"Hmm," she says, thoughtfully. "And you two got into a fight?"

"A tiny one," I say, almost sarcastically, but not quite. I mean, obviously something happened, so why waste our time on questions that will only lead to obvious answers? She might as well have asked if Kyle has red hair. Miss Something 'hmm's again and looks back and forth between us. I know she's assessing things. Like, alright, Smoking For Attention Kid has a bit of a nose bleed and Redhead Jew's face is going to be bruised for a while, who got more damage? If you're not retarded you can figure out its Kyle.

"Who started the fight?" she asks. I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand to me and looks toward Kyle with a kind smile.

"I did," Kyle admits, with a little cough. Miss Something looks a little surprised, but manages to hide it after a few seconds.

"Shouldn't you, like, separate us so we don't kill each other while you're filling out suspension forms or something?" I ask, slightly bored with the entire thing. I know how this is going to end up. Kyle and I won't be at school tomorrow, my mom will be Very Disappointed In Me, and his mom will ground him forever and try and cover up his bruises with makeup. It's all very predictable. I'm sure that, at this very moment, everyone's talking about what happened. Nothing else to talk about, really.

"I should," she says, with a shrug. "But I don't do that. I believe I should hear a truthful story from the both of you, together, as unorthodox as that may seem and then we'll talk about it." As soon as she says 'talk about it' Kyle and I both audibly groan, because no one ever wants to 'talk about it.' "I do not, however, believe in suspensions for things such as this," she continues. "It only furthers the belief that you two are delinquents."

"We aren't delinquents?" I say in mock surprise.

"I hardly think so, Craig," she says to me. I kind of blush and feel awkward and completely stupid for trying to make a joke out of this. I'm not even angry though, just kind of embarrassed. "So, which one of you wants to tell me what happened first?" she asks us, with an inviting smile. She still has that way of talking that makes you want to tell her stuff. She didn't become a counselor for nothing, I suppose.

"It was really all my fault," Kyle blurts out, surprising Miss Something somewhat, but surprising me even more. "I was kind of jealous of, um, Craig because he was hanging around with this guy – my friend." I roll my eyes at that one. Lame cover up, he pretty much made it obvious that he's flaming, and I don't mean his hair. "I have a pretty bad temper so I started the whole thing and made it worse by, uh…" He trails off, blushing, making it very clear he doesn't want to fess up to what he did.

"He told everyone I, you know, like my friend Tweek," I supply for Miss Something. She looks at me, understanding what I mean, suddenly. I have the feeling she remembers talking about Tweek the last time I was here, but she doesn't say anything, just nods at me to continue. "I have a temper too and, honestly, I wasn't even going to fight with him until he pretty much let half the school in on something that's not even any of his business, but when he did I just lost it and did, well, uh, _that_," I finish, pointing directly at Kyle's face.

"I see," Miss Something says, looking down at her clean desk like there's a hidden message somewhere, telling her how to deal with this exact situation. "Well, how does that make you feel, Craig?" I snort at her lame, stereotypical question but she glares at me and I feel a bit embarrassed again. "What I mean is, did that help at all?" she asks, gesturing to Kyle who's kind of listening with interest now. "Did it make you feel any better to get angry and punch poor Kyle, here?"

"Well, yeah, a little," I respond with a shrug, biting back my laughter at the 'poor Kyle' reference. "Like we talked about before, with cigarettes and stuff like that. I get a release, being angry, beating someone up, I guess, is the same thing. Probably a bad alternative, but oh fucking well." Miss Something cringes a bit when I swear but doesn't say anything about it. "Besides, I figured if Kyle was going to out me to half of the school I might as well come out fighting." Which is, essentially, my logic. I don't want anyone thinking that just because I'm a bit of fag – I'm only half, really – that means that I'm a push-over. It doesn't.

"Okay," Miss Something says slowly. "And how about you Kyle? Did starting this whole little charade make you feel any better? Did your…friend, did he seem at all impressed by what you did or did you think that it would impress him?"

"No," Kyle says shortly. I can see that Miss Something is getting on his nerves. I wish she was getting on mine. "I didn't do it for anyone's attention; I did it because I was mad."

"Why were you mad exactly?" she asks, suddenly sure that she's on to something.

"Because Craig was doing stuff with him," Kyle says slowly, uncomfortably, his face turning red. "I don't want to talk about it. It bothered me, alright, and I was stupid, but I don't want to talk about it." Miss Something 'hmm's and looks back and forth between us a few times. Kyle is wonderfully distressed, at least to me, and I just smile at her like I don't have a problem in the world. Not that I really feel that way, but it's much easier to keep up an act of indifference than to show her how I really feel.

"Ah, well," she says, finally, "I suppose that's that. If you two won't tell me any more than that about the situation, I won't push you any further. I'm sure you're tired of talking to me anyway." Dammit, just when it was getting interesting too, now I have to go to – what is it? – fifth hour now. "I'll just write you both passes back to class." I'm going to Human Bio and Kyle has Calculus. I hate how smart he is sometimes.

"Oh my God!" I cry as we walk out into the empty hallways. Kyle looks at me like I'm insane. "She changed," I offer, like that's really going to solve anything. The redhead just kind of sighs and shrugs and walks ahead of me, still angry, I guess. Now I kind of chase after him. Really, as exciting as Human Bio is I can't imagine that I'm going to die if I miss another lecture. "I mean, she looked hot, didn't you notice?"

"Not really," Kyle says, aggravation clear in his tone of voice.

"It was your French boy's idea, you know," I tell him, grinning when that gets him to turn around and face me. "Not that I was entirely protesting or anything, but you really should have punched 'Tophe, not me. See, I know you wouldn't, because you're such a great friend and all, and you would never punch a friend, right? All I'm saying is, it would be nice if you didn't act like a whiny bitch to me when I didn't even do anything, Kyle."

"You did enough," Kyle whines, looking more upset than angry now, kind of writhing almost, not looking at me. He knows he was wrong and he knows I'm right, that he jumped to conclusions. It's not like Christophe and I were making out or something, we were just being, well, friendly. Implying, not actually doing, yet that had been enough for the Jew to get jealous. "Look, Craig, I know what you're saying, but for some reason it really hurt me that you two were – I don't know."

Okay, so, I do feel kind of bad. Now he's staring at the floor in the same way Miss Something stared at her desk. As if all the answers are on those shitty tiles our school has had ever since it was built in, like, the fifteen hundreds. He feels helpless, that much is obvious, but it's _his _fault for being so oblivious to everything. "We didn't do anything," I admit to him. "Seriously, we didn't, it was all Christophe's idea. I knew it wasn't going to work out, I told him he was watching too many John Hughes movies."

"Wait, so, you two…?" Kyle says, looking up at me now like the excited little lapdog he is.

"Have not had relations," I reply, completely serious. He eats that up, I mean, he loves it, he's suddenly all smiles. "Before you get all happy and skip off to Stan, though, you should realize one thing," I tell the confused looking redhead. "Maybe you want to believe that you're just protective of Christophe now or maybe you're telling yourself that it wasn't romantic jealousy, maybe there's still some lingering possessiveness, well, think that if you want Kyle, but you should realize that you're completely wrong. You still want him and he still wants you and neither of you will be happy until you have each other."

I'm evil and I know it, because the only thing that gets me through fifth hour is thinking about how Kyle looked like I had effectively destroyed his little Jew world.

* * *

Sixth hour is efficiently discomforting. Not that anyone's taken sides, per se. We're all just ill at ease with each other. Cartman's the only one who seems anywhere near happy, probably just because Kyle is starting to develop a black eye. Stan looks thoroughly pissed with me, and glares at me from time to time. You know, like I'm really scared of what lover boy might dare to do to me. Oh, goodness, I hope he doesn't suck me in the locker room. Ah, I'm petrified.

Tweek is either pretending to have forgotten about the fact that my love for him was shouted by a certain redhead not two hours earlier or he really has pushed it to the back of his mind, because he's not acting much different than he was this morning around me, if a bit more aloof and in his own world. And, alright, Kenny looks kind of angry with me, like he did earlier in the hallway, but I think he's just angry with all of us, or maybe with the world in general. It's not my problem.

'Life coach' is totally irritated. He knows about the fight and he's practically yelling at us about how fights never solve anything and we should enter the military if that's what our line of thinking is. I wonder if he wasn't accepted by the military or something because he sure seems to hate everything about it. "The real pansies," he yells at us, "are the men in the military. They think guns and ammunition solve all their problems, but they're _wrong_."

"Excuse me sir," Kenny says, with an innocent smile, raising his hand in the air like he has a very valid point, "but I thought that the real pansies were the ones my mom planted outside in July." Which is bullshit, of course. Kenny's mom doesn't plant flowers. We all sort of laugh though and, I have to admit, it eases the tension slightly, a stupid joke about pansies. 'Life coach' doesn't laugh, he just yells at us to go run laps until the bell rings. Where does our school find its wonderful, upstanding staff members? I'm willing to bet they raid the local asylum.

"So," Token says, somberly, as Tweek and I half-ass our run with him, "everyone being weird to you now?" I scoff, not because it's a stupid question, but because he assumed I care what everyone thinks. True, I do care what people think, but I've never shown that to anyone, definitely not to Token, although I wouldn't put it past him to have figured it out on his own.

Is everyone being weird to me now? It is an interesting question, I'll admit. To answer it truthfully I kind of do one of those wobbling your hand slightly gestures and remark, "Eh," with a shrug. It's not as if anyone's avoiding me now, but I'm sure they're talking about me behind my back and their opinions on me are skewed now. I'm not going to get beaten up by anyone, since I beat up the person who outed me. No one's treating me any differently, I guess, because I'm not acting any differently.

Sure if I had started sobbing when Kyle made his little announcement to the world, I'd be getting my ass kicked by half of the football team, Stan included, but I've proven I can hold my own, fag or not. Or maybe they're just waiting until I'm alone one day and they'll all take turns beating the shit out of me, I don't know. But for right now I'll just settle with flipping anyone off who looks at me a bit different. Not to get on a soapbox and make a stupid little speech or anything, but, hell, I'm still the same old jerk I always have been, I'm just a jerk who has more than platonic feelings for his best friend.

Fuck anyone who thinks of me differently because of that.

"Eh?" Token says, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, eh, don't question it," I growl at him, almost glaring. He just smirks at me knowingly. I flip him off and slow down running until I'm just walking. Token doesn't slow down; in fact he kind of accelerates, running past Bebe and Rebecca. Show off. Tweek slows down with me though and kind of smiles at me. He's still far off, very distant, almost sad looking. It's not like before, when his golden eyes looked dead, but it's still disturbing and not like him.

"You alright?" I ask him, giving him a stupid smile. I got used to not smiling in the time I wasn't around Tweek and I'm still not entirely used to it anymore, it's hard for me to form a genuine smile on my face, unless it's being directed towards the twitchy blond who does, in fact, twitch and smile back at me. He shrugs, dejectedly and clutches his silver thermos tight in his hands. "You know you can tell me anything, Tweek," I say, smiling a bit more, wanting to see him smile.

"I know," he says, shakily. "But, just – gah – not when all these people are around, that's too much."

"Pressure?" I ask knowing full well that's what he means. Tweek nods and we share a stupid little smile, two friends who know everything about each other. I know we're going to have to talk about it, probably today, but not right now. It's the least we can do for each other, just to pretend nothing is wrong between us. It's weird, but as out of it as Tweek looks I know I'm the one who's more worried about this entire thing. Sure Tweek is twitching and worried that he doesn't have enough layers on and he's going to freeze to death, but that's probably just due to excessive amounts of caffeine. I'm the one who's acting paranoid about all of this right now, more so than him.

I can tell he's worried about it too, though. We're both still trying to avoid contact with each other, like if we touch everyone will assume we're the new Stan and Kyle. No one wants to be the new Stan and Kyle, mostly because they're so unaware of just how aware everyone is of them. We're not rushing to tell them that either, we're all just kind of rolling our eyes at them because it's like they seriously think they have everyone fooled. I would have to say it's because they're around each other so much.

With Christophe and Kyle I didn't even have a clue and, apparently neither did anyone else sans Kenny, mostly because of the fact that I never really saw them with each other exclusively. Christophe would just follow Kyle around at some times and now I guess I can see that as, perhaps, the redhead teasing the French boy, but at the time I just thought Christophe was being really fucking annoying and Kyle was going to punch him one day. That's sexual tension for you. But, Kyle and Stan? Even the teachers are starting to catch onto the fact that those 'super best friends' are engaging in, what I can only guess are, innocent, little, G-rated sexcapades.

Tweek doesn't want anyone to think we're doing the same and, quite frankly, neither do I. Even if we were I wouldn't want anyone to know. At least not that early on, it's a matter of privacy, never mind the fact that I would never dream of being as obvious as those two. Though, this is all assuming that we would keep it a secret, and I would kind of like that. It would be one, huge, glorious lie I would get to tell every day. We could fool the entire school. It kind of excites me a bit to think about that, as lame as that sounds. I wouldn't even need cigarettes; every day would be one big lie and that would free me from my nicotine addiction, I bet.

That is tempting, but not very likely. After all, one stupid kiss made Tweek freak out, going any further than that…he'd probably have a heart attack. But I'll probably have a heart attack if one more person talks about me behind my back, which I can tell Rebecca and Bebe are doing right now. They're walking in front of me and Tweek and Bebe keeps turning around to look at us and then quickly whipping her dirty blond hair back so she can whisper something pointless to Rebecca and they can dissect it like the predatory animals they are. Girls. Sometimes they disgust me.

I think I have one ounce of luck left and it gets used up on Tweek not noticing that the girls in front of us are gossiping about us. I'm sure neither one of them would say anything to my face, they'll act normal around me, but they will, naturally, have some sort of new opinion about me. It kills me inside a little to know that, but I won't show it, especially not to Tweek. It's the principal of the thing; he can't see me as weak so I'll convince myself I'm not. Not weak in the least and certainly not caring what Bebe and Rebecca think of me, not at all.

When the bell does ring and we all go to change things are a bit weird again. Kenny makes a few jokes to clear the air and it's not so bad, but I can definitely notice the tension between us all and Stan, lover boy Stan, is still thoroughly pissed with me. Let him be. Just let him be. I know Kyle hasn't told him the whole story so he's looking at me through fragments when he thinks he has the whole story figured out. Stan is so clueless to everything, almost to the point where I feel sorry for him, but it's his fault. He's not oblivious like Kyle, he just doesn't want to see what he knows is there. What, does he think Kyle got pissed off because I got a better grade on the French test that him? Stan knows it has _something_ to do with French and if he acts like he doesn't he's just fooling himself.

I honestly wouldn't be so worried about Stan's predicament if I wasn't so scared that mine might end up mirroring it some time in the future. Like maybe Tweek will get dumped by someone – or whatever happened between the Jew and French boy – and he'll come to me, heartbroken for sure, and we'll fuck or something and he'll regret it later like I'm sure Kyle is now. I just don't want to be the one who gets nothing out of it all. For once I am listening to my own advice and it's only because of that fact that I don't flip Stan off. Let him be angry. That's how I would feel if I was in his place. I don't feel bad for him, I just know I would never want to have to face what he's facing.

Surprisingly the bus ride home is pretty normal. Christophe gives me his French homework so I don't have to worry about it tomorrow when I remember I never finished it. He touches Kyle's shoulder when he walks by and Kyle blushes like crazy and tries to duck down and hide it, but I know I'm not the only one who notices it. I am just loving this. Poor Stan isn't though; I think he's starting to get a hint of what exactly is coming for him. I don't know how but I get Tweek to agree to coming over to my house and that puts a smile on face even while Token quizzes me on Human Bio.

"You know I don't know any of this, right?" I ask him after I get my sixth question in a row wrong.

"Any of what? Everything?" he responds with, a jab at my ego that I, admittedly, deserve.

"Hey, Kyle," I say, getting everyone to immediately tense, like Kyle and I now hate each other or something. We don't hate each other. I've never felt closer to the Jew. Mostly because we both share a mutual understanding of where the other stands in their relationships. Kyle has to choose between his best friend and the person he's actually in love with while I have to choose between risking everything and crushing my own feelings. It's a wonderful thing, this understanding bullshit. "You have Human Bio second hour, think you can remember what the essay will be on for me, please?" Am I a suck-up at times like these, or what?

"Yeah, sure," he replies, with a shrug, "and if I'm feeling especially gracious I might even remember the answer for you too, since I know you won't know a thing about the topic." It's a joke, no animosity behind it even if his words imply it, and everyone around us breathes easier because of it. I grin at him, he put on a rather nice show, because I'm sure he would rather that he could have refused my offer. If I was next to him I would pat him on the head for being so sweet.

As things stand right now Stan is looking lost in the webs we have weaved and, you know, I _almost _pity him.

Just like last time that Tweek came over to my house, which feels like years ago in my mind, we go to Stark's Pond first. I feel the increasing need for a cigarette and Tweek doesn't argue about it although I know he would like to. Stark's Pond has felt a bit eerie ever since Kenny's suicide so there's not a soul around. Even animals seem to keep away now and the only sounds are the wind blowing the leaves of the trees and the stray rustle of some recluse animal running away from the feeling of death and tragedy that are laced into the atmosphere around the pond.

"I'm trying to think of how to say this," I say after we stand there, silent, for a few minutes. My cigarette is lit and rapidly disappearing. It's all that's keeping me from reaching out to touch him. I don't mean that it takes away the urge completely. It does sort of suppress it though. The thought of reaching out to pull him close to me is still in my mind, but other things are more prevalent after I have nicotine in my system. It doesn't make me forget what I want completely but it fools me into thinking I don't want it all that much, when it's what I want most.

Carnal urges aside I really am contemplating how to talk to him about this. It's not like I can just apologize for this. 'Sorry, Tweek, I kind of fell in love with you, my bad, but you really ought to get that adorable thing about you fixed, it makes you rather irresistible.' Not exactly going to work even if we do never touch again. I can't lie about it either, because this is Tweek and I don't lie about important things to him. Godzilla is one thing, love is another – I can't lie to him and that thought just makes me crave another cigarette as I throw the finished one into the snow.

"How do I say this?" I mumble, flicking the red plastic lighter I stole from Christophe ages ago until I can light a second cigarette. "I'm sorry," I begin, slowly, taking a drag from the cigarette as I think about how to continue. "But I'm not at the same time. I can't help what's going on, you know. You don't need to worry about it, though, Tweek," I assure him with a tiny smile as he just kind of twitches under my gaze, "I won't do anything like that – that, yeah" – I'm apparently unable to say kiss – "again, I promise that. I'll handle it on my own."

Tweek seems to consider this and then laughs a little bit, at his own thoughts, I guess, before saying anything. "Jesus!" he cries, still laughing a little bit. "You're s-so stupid sometimes, Craig." I stare at him for a long moment, slightly shocked by the words he just said. "I didn't – gah – I didn't even _know _this is what you wanted to talk about!" he says with a smile threatening to break out on his face. I reach out and he doesn't even flinch when I run a hand through his blond hair, just sighs. "Of course I'm worried Craig, I worry about everything. Ack!" His last outburst was caused by my hand running into a particularly messy part of his hair.

"Sorry," I mumble, moving away a bit and returning my attention to the cigarette.

"Craig," he says, his tone suddenly serious. "This is – ngh – this is going to sound stupid." I raise an eyebrow and look at him; I very highly doubt that anything that Tweek could have to say to me could be stupid. The fact that he's talking to me at all makes it important, actually. "I d-don't care about the – gah – the _you know_." Yes, kiss has definitely disappeared from both of our vocabularies. "I'm worried about everything that logically would – ngh – come after it and what people would think and I d-don't…want that." Those words kind of crush me and I know he sees that.

It's weird. All along, ever since fourth grade, I've thought of Tweek as the one who needed to be protected. I thought Tweek was the one who needed to be comforted and saved from his fears. But when Tweek reaches out and takes my hand I realize that I've always been wrong. It's a very mutual thing that we have, Tweek and I. The very fact that someone depends on me and needs me as Tweek does, it makes me depend on him and need him just as much. I never realized that when I hold Tweek's hand he's also holding mine.

"But just because I don't want that," he says, very slowly, looking in my eyes, "doesn't mean that I don't want to be around you." He's talking at an agonizingly deliberate pace, to avoid, I realize, any of his outbursts. It's something he does rarely, taking control of things like that. "Or that I don't need you," he adds, smiling a little more as he says that, but flushing a bit, his voice speeding up. "Oh God, sorry if that – gah – sorry if that sounded really stupid, Craig. I know you don't like stuff like that!"

"Nah, Tweeky," I say, both of us smiling at that ridiculously childish nickname. I throw the unfinished cigarette to the side, finding it useless at the moment. "I love stuff like that. Now, let's go to my house and do something boring like we always do." We walk to my house, holding hands, a moment I can pretend means more than it actually does. My mom is happy to see us, it's been ages since I've had any friends over and she loves Tweek. She asks us if we want something to eat or drink and Tweek promptly hands over the empty silver thermos with a smile. I stifle a laugh as my mom makes coffee for him, because I know she hates coffee, but the fact that she's making it anyway is admirable, I suppose.

We go to my room when his thermos is full and, to my surprise when I ask him what he wants to do he wants to watch Red Racer. As soon as he mentions the show my mind starts to calculate how long it's been since I watched it. Forever. I think that's about accurate. Somewhere in-between everything that has been going on my favorite television show fell into the cracks and was forgotten for quite some time. I'm just surprised that Tweek, who I've long suspected of hating the show, is the one to mention it to me, finally.

Tweek doesn't sit like he usually does, either. We lie next to each other on our stomachs, facing the television. I don't know if he pushes his fear of the monsters lurking under my bed out of his mind or if he just pretends that he doesn't care to appease me, but it's comforting either way. At the moment we've kind of switched roles, Tweek is doing what he has to so that I feel better and I'm just letting him do so. Of course if he told anyone else about this I wouldn't hesitate to kill him.

Well, maybe I'd hesitate a little.

Somehow we both end up getting engrossed in the show. I don't even notice taking Tweek's hand in my own again, but I do at some point and Tweek doesn't push me away or anything, he knows I need contact right now and not just any contact – I need his. The thing that I like, really, about Red Racer is how predictable it is. I've watched every episode a hundred times at least; I know the plotlines by heart. It's all pretty stupid. Red Racer enters a race, something happens that almost prevents him from winning, but he wins in the end. And if he doesn't win he will in the next episode.

That never changes and that's what I love. Happy endings, ones you can't count on, that's how life should work. It depresses me in a way, because that's _not _how life works and I know these moments won't last forever. I know Tweek won't lie next to me ever again and even if he does it won't mean anything more to him than just being next to his best friend. That's the worst part, I think. That everything we do is just a gesture of friendship to him when I want him to think of it as something more.

I fall asleep at some point and when I wake up the television is off and Tweek is sitting on my bed doing something that looks like the journal Creative Writing students have to do. I know about the journal because pretty much everyone in our grade besides Kyle, Gregory, Wendy and I took Creative Writing. They have to write in it at least once a week and turn it in at the end of the term. A lot of them don't actually write much of anything since the teacher swears she won't read it as it's personal. And if she said anything to them about not writing much she would be a liar for having read it. I love the logic my friends come up with.

Even though I know that's what he's doing I ask him, "What are you doing?" with a yawn. It's this little lie that keeps me from, I don't know what, grabbing Tweek, I guess. While he answers I get up and search around for a cigarette to smoke. I usually don't smoke in my house though, since my parents would get mad about that. I'm not sure why, exactly, they know I'm addicted to the things, so why does it matter where I give into my addictions? I guess it's a matter of 'seeing is believing.' They've never actually seen me smoke, so as long as they don't see me they can pretend I'm a good little boy to everyone else.

"Ack!" Tweek yells, obviously not having been aware that I woke up. The pen he was using to write flies up into the air as he pretty much convulses in surprise. I smirk but don't let him see it as I open dresser drawers in search of nicotine. "You scared me," he says with a nervous laugh. I turn around to see that the journal is closed now. How very interesting that little fact is. "J-just homework for Creative Writing."

"Slow down Tweek, I might die of excitement," I say, blandly, with a snort.

"It's my favorite class!" he reminds me, defensively. Of course it's Tweek's favorite class. He has so many little stories floating around in his mind, how hard can it be for him to write a few of them down on paper? Tweek isn't exactly a genius, not even close, really, but he took easy classes, unlike me, so his GPA is somewhere in the high threes while mine is barely hanging on at a measly 2.3. Park County Community College, here I come!

"I know, Tweek," I tell him, lighting a cigarette while I sit in the middle of the floor. I found a pack under a few DVD cases. Who knows how old they are, but I'm willing to take my chances. "Is that the stupid journal thing everyone always complains about?" I ask, walking over to the bed and picking up the notebook. It's one of those stereotypical journal things, with the black and white pattern and Tweek's name written on the front. Tweek Tweak – Creative Writing 3rd Hour, it says.

"Jesus Christ, yes!" he says, snatching it out of my hands and holding it close to his chest. "Don't read it, Craig!" He says that like his life depends on it. And, fuck, it really makes me want to read it, but I hardly think he confessed his love for me in the pages of his Creative Writing journal, so I just shrug like I could hardly care. He flips open the journal to a page and reads for a few silent moments. "I h-have to – gah – I have to tell you something!" he exclaims, biting his lip when I look at him.

"What?" I ask as I sit next to him on the bed, careful to sound nonchalant about the whole thing, like I could care less what he says, really.

"I'm not g-go-gah!" he starts, freaking out mid-sentence, burying his face in his hands and letting the journal fall between us. I tell myself I won't but I get a quick glance at what he's written, skim over and, wow, I notice my name at least five times on one page alone, which is either very bad or very good. With my recent luck I would have to say very bad. "I'm not going to be here," he continues, slowly, still covering his face with his hands, "for your birthday."

"Oh," I say, shortly. It's not as crushing as him telling me he doesn't want to be anything more than friends like he did earlier, but it doesn't make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel substantially worse.

"My parents are going to Seattle for some convention thing for Harbucks," he explains quickly. "And – ngh – it's all happening over Christmas vacation and my grandparents live in Seattle and they w-want to visit them and they're making me go and I told them I was going to miss your birthday and that you would be mad and you would n-never talk to me again and…and…God!" he finishes, peering at me and shaking like crazy.

"Tweek," I say, "like I always tell you, don't worry about it. It's just one birthday, there will be others." He smiles at me weakly, but I know he can detect my saddened tone of voice. "When will you be back?" I ask, slowly. Against my own wishes I close the journal and push it slightly towards him. He trusts me enough to be near me even after what he knows; I can earn that trust by not reading what he doesn't want me to.

"The day after Christmas," he says, smiling a little brighter. "We still have a week of vacation after that and then – ngh – N-new Years, so we can hang out then, right?"

"No fucking duh," I tell him, trying to match his smile. It's a little hard though. This entire time I've been trying to find excuses not to, but this is the perfect time to do so. Tweek will be gone for at least a week from what I can understand. There's nothing we can do to prevent it, it's imminent and there's no stopping it. So why not? I can break this addiction while he's gone, once and for all, we can still be best friends and Tweek won't even get hurt in the process.

I will, of course, but Tweek won't and, right now, that's all that matters.

**A/N**: The return of Miss Something was going to happen whether I liked it or not. So I figured I might as well make her hot now. I don't know exactly what happened but apparently Craig fell out of his angst pool and into a fluff pool. Ouch, I think I got cavities from writing that last bit. Sorry if I gave you guys any. Review, review, review, tell me how pissed you are at Craig or something, I don't mind. Remember: the faster you review and more reviews I get, the faster I update. It just motivates me.  
And thanks, once again, for all the reviews on the last chapter, my e-mail is still being weird and I only got alerts on the last two.  
Until next time, tweekers


	12. When You Go

**Addict**

**A/N**: First and foremost, the most important thing in the world today...it's Butters' birthday. :3 I'm having butterscotch cookies to celebrate and technically posting this for his birthday. I love birthdays, in case you can't tell. I have a really long story I'll be posting for Stan's birthday eventually - and, well, suffice it to say that, yes, I am a nerd for birthdays.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

**Chapter Twelve**: When You Go

The next day is akin to the one before the day that started this whole mess. That day in mid-September when the power went out. Except this time I just didn't set my alarm and my charming mother neglected to wake me up. I don't miss the bus by much time though and I ask my half-asleep mother if I can drive the car to school and she obliges. I know when I get home later she'll yell at me for it, but right now I just want to school on time.

Normally I'd just make up some story about why I was late. My dad lost his job and can't pay the electric bills. I'll save that one for some other time. That's almost a double-lie, because I'd later have to lie about how he got his job back and, holy shit, I don't even know what job my father has, much less if he can be fired from it, so that's almost as good as sex. Like I would know or something. Anyway, my mom mumbles something that sounds like she's telling me the keys are on the counter and they are.

I take that as approval to take the car. Never mind that she never actually said I could, I'm taking the damn thing. Really, it's not a bad car. If I knew anything about cars I would probably would think it was a piece of shit, but it runs when I put the key in it and the silver paint job isn't rusting or scratched, so what do I care? Truth be told, I love driving. Tweek hates driving, which shouldn't come as a surprise, he thinks everyone has road rage and they're just waiting for him to drive along so they can bump into his fender or something.

I love driving, a lot. Not like Kenny who uses it as an excuse to go really, really fast and get really, really far away from here. Just because I'm pretty much in control of the entire thing. Whenever my dad would drive me somewhere, which was a lot since he didn't travel as much when I was younger, he would always hit my hand away when I went to turn on the radio or turn up the heat. When I'm driving that's my thing, no one touches _my _fucking radio or _my _fucking heating system, because it's _my _fucking car. At least when I'm driving it it's mine.

I put on stupid CDs or radio stations and put up the volume just because I can. I mean, I'm not singing along or anything, but it's a nice little fuck-you-all without having to actually take the time to actually flip people off. Ah, the joys of having complete control over the volume. It's grand, it really is. But the ride to school is only about five minutes long, since there's no traffic this early in the morning. Plus since no one has their own car besides a few snobby North Park douche bags there isn't exactly a line to park in the student lot.

Meaning, in all my genius of driving to school to not be late I've gotten to school _early_. God it's just utterly disgusting. The only people here fifteen minutes early are kids in sweater vests and the teachers for fuck's sake. All the teachers that I've ever had in my three years here look at me like something must be wrong. If only they knew how wrong. The fluorescent-lit halls are utterly different without all the other groups of people walking with me. There are a few kids sitting out front of the Chemistry lab, studying. Don't they know that you study at home? And that even then it's just an excuse to hang out with someone?

I swear, I will never understand some people as long as I live.

The first person that I do see who offers me a smile is Miss Something. And, you know, I was starting to doubt yesterday's assessment. Like maybe Kyle actually had punched me hard enough to imagine she looked attractive, but no. Oh no, she looks good today too, maybe even better, because she's wearing her glasses today and clicking down the hall in high heels while she looks over some papers in her hand. It's like when my mom used to work as a secretary at this law office and she took me to Bring Your Kid To Work Day or whatever the fuck. Not that my mom looked hot, but the other secretary did.

Miss Something smiles at me and for a minute I just tug on my hair and then smile back, uncertain. Despite the fact that she looks like she is and must be just out of college, she's still an authority figure, someone I'm really not supposed to be enjoying that much or smiling at for that matter. "Why hello, Craig," she says after we stand there for a few seconds in awkward, heavy silence. "How are you this morning?"

"Fine!" I say, quickly. "I'm fine." She nods at me and we stand there for a few more seconds and then I realize she's waiting for me to say something. "And how about you?" It's a bit embarrassing, really. I'm standing in front of her in a sweater that I don't think has been washed in a week or two, my hat is just barely managing to cover my mess of hair, I'm holding French notes. I look like every other horny eleventh-grader to her, I'm sure.

"I'm alright, thank you," Miss Something says with a little hum and a smile. "Have a good day, Craig." Then she clicks in her high heels further down the hallway until I realize I shouldn't be watching her any longer. I think something is wrong with me. I seem to be the only one who has noticed that Miss Something is, well, oozing sex appeal. I think it's just been too long since I've made out with anyone. That's all.

When I get to my locker I notice that, lo and behold, Stan is at school. For what reason, I don't know, but he has gotten a hair cut, which means I've won our unspoken war of whose hair can grow to the most unreasonable length. Woohoo, my hair is unreasonable, that's definitely cause for celebration. He still looks rather angry at me when he sees me across the hallway, but it's in a sulky way now, like a certain redhead called him to talk about where there relationship was – or rather wasn't – going last night.

"Hey, Craig?" he says, as I'm grabbing my Psychology book and dropping my French notes into my locker.

"Yes, Stan?" I ask, not bothering to look at the raven-haired boy as I slam my locker door and then turn to walk down the hall.

"Kyle." That's all he gets out, before he gives this kind of miserable sigh. It's shaky and I turn to look and realize that besides looking angry and sulky he is genuinely depressed. Not Tweek's dead-eye depression or Christophe's turning-into-my-other-personality depression, but his own brand of my-life-is-now-over depression that seeps into every fiber of his being. All I can think of is, well, at least he won't have to dye his hair black when he starts hanging out with the Goth Kids again.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" I say, rather scathingly. "To not be able to do anything about it, right? Because he's your best friend. He's not just some bitch you can throw to the side by giving her a stupid necklace and promising to call her for sex when you're drunk." We both know I'm referring to Wendy and Stan winces as I mention that relationship, but he cringes even more when I mention 'best friend.' In any other situation the phrase 'best friend' is simply peachy.

Not when you're in love with him.

"It's just…Goddammit!" he cries, kicking a random locker. We walked a good distance down the hallway and now people are starting to actually get to school. The busses are arriving and normal people who aren't insane are getting here on time. Stan looks rather pathetic, staring at the locker he just kicked, not knowing what to say now, although I'm sure he's thinking of a million words to say in his mind. Once again I'm reminded of my stupid, useless fear that one day I'll be in his place and that kind of helps not to get angry and instead to try and offer some consolatory words on the matter.

"If it helps you any," I say, quietly, knowing it won't, "Tweek told me yesterday, in not so many words, that he'd really rather be best friends than anything more. Just came out and told me, like, 'Oh, you love me, that _is_ nice, but I don't really feel the same way.' I don't exactly feel too hot, either." I know it's not going to help him, not really, but he looks at me like maybe it did, at least for right now.

"I have to sit next to him in Psych," he moans, grabbing onto my arm. I shake him off though; I draw the line at him leeching life out of me. I'm not here to comfort Stanley Marsh, thanks. "I have to see him all day," he says as we begin to walk again towards the stairs. "I have to see him at lunch or – maybe I don't. Maybe he'll be with _him_." He sucks in this huge breath that I know is meant to keep him from crying. Jesus Christ, I always thought Kyle was the emotional one.

"Did you know?" I ask. Stan looks at me, wounded puppy dog eyes, while we walk up the nearly deserted stairs. "About them before, not just now," I clarify and his eyes widen and I immediately know that was the worst thing to say because, fuck, he quite obviously did not know about them before. He doesn't look hurt though, just like he's going to vomit. Oh, God, I bet Kyle pretended he was a virgin or something. Sick, I do not want to think about that, at all. Gross, Kyle Broflovski, in bed, it's a disgusting thought, a terrible thought, I'm probably going to vomit too.

"No," Stan breathes out although he's made it obvious that the word was going to be his answer for a good minute or so now, flailing around like a fish without water or a lover boy without his Jew.

"I didn't until fairly recently," I let him know, like that's going to lessen the blow. He looks like I punched him in the stomach. Shit, I forgot, telling him that _I _knew before he did – not the best idea. At least 'until fairly recently' is a sweet little three-word lie, I knew over a month ago. Perhaps I can pretend that I mean I found out yesterday or five minutes before I got to school. But that's such a petty lie. No this one…this one could be better than that.

"I don't want to sit next to him," Stan whines, breaking my train of thought as we reach the Psychology classroom.

"No, Stan, don't you get it?" I say, excitedly, practically feeling my blue eyes burn with intensity. "That's what Kyle wants. He's doing all of this to – to detract from your worth." Oh, good one, pretending Stan has 'worth.' "He wants you to feel worthless and helpless and ah…ah! He wants you to be ashamed and embarrassed, acting like you are right now." I don't know why I'm doing this exactly, but it's a rather lavish lie that practically makes me die from the release I feel telling it.

"That doesn't sound like Kyle at all," Stan mumbles, although he looks less upset now. "And weren't you the one," he continues, looking angry, "who messed this all up? Kyle got mad at you yesterday, didn't he?"

"Stan," I say, gravely, putting a hand on his shoulder, "that is because I was flirting with Christophe. It made Kyle jealous. And of course it doesn't sound like Kyle; he's with 'Tophe now, he's not the Kyle you know. Remember ages ago when you got mad at me because Kyle was acting weird and you wanted to know what I did?" His eyes light up, he doesn't look wounded, more so bewildered. "I told Christophe that Kyle liked you and that made Christophe jealous enough to want Kyle back."

"Meaning you started all of this," Stan states, bluntly, pushing my hand off of his shoulder.

"Innocent bystander who did something with no intention of harming anyone, that's all I am," I claim, easily throwing my arm across his shoulders as I drag him into class. Euphoria is rushing over me as he accepts these words and kind of nods. I can see him figuring out things in his head, and can only hope he comes to the conclusion that Kyle is at fault. "What you need to do Stan, is act like it doesn't even matter," I advise him, cocking my head to the side like I'm considering it and then nodding.

"But – but it does!" Stan stammers out, this little exclamation greeting Token and a few other kids in our class that are filing in.

"I know it does," I mutter to him gruffly, pulling him towards the desk he shares with Kyle. "That's why I said 'act,' alright? I know it hurts, believe me, I know, but you can't just fall to pieces because that's what Kyle wants. Grow some fucking balls, Marsh and handle this like a man." With that I roughly push him into his seat and take my own next to Token.

It's not very satisfying though, only about fifty percent of that was a lie. The lie isn't intended to be malicious, I really have nothing against Kyle, he chose what he had to, but he hurt Stan. This is exactly what I'm trying to avoid with Tweek. But it makes me squirm a little bit, because when I compare Tweek and I with Stan and Kyle I know that I would be the one sitting there nervously, waiting for the kid who just dumped me for someone else.

Stan looks kind of prepared, though, and I feel really bad when the bell rings. When the whole class goes by. When the whole day goes by, really. Stan looks prepared all day, like Kyle's going to walk out of his locker when he opens it or something, but Kyle never shows up. I know it's not just that though, that makes Stan look so lost and hurt. It's the fact that Christophe never shows up either.

* * *

Kenny accosts me while we're, dare I say it, starting an actual sport in Physical Education. 'Life coach' gave a nice little mini-speech about friendship, cutting it short when he realized, I think, that Stan looked ready to give a speech about what he had learned today, mainly that friendship isn't worth shit when a charming Frenchman decides to steal your best friend. Stan also looked like he was going to puke when 'life coach' put up the lists for who was on each team and he had, of course, put Kyle on Stan's team.

We're playing volleyball in the middle of winter which makes no sense, but then again, what does? My team is Kenny, Tweek and Bebe. Someone decided to bless me with blonds. The powers that be, namely 'life coach,' have overlooked that you need six people on a volleyball team for it to function properly and we're all at a loss of how to set up the nets so that's our main challenge today. Can someone explain to me again why, exactly, I am being forced to take this class?

Of course Kenny isn't worried about setting up volleyball nets, he's more concerned with setting people up, and I know I would get angry when I couldn't get the nets to work so we leave it to Cartman, Clyde and Token who seem to get along fine without us. Tweek realizes the fact that Kenny wants to talk to me and backs off, allowing Bebe to fawn over him. She does, fawn, I mean, and it makes me a little self-assured to know I'm not the only one who finds him cute, but I flip her off nonetheless. What a slut, she's supposed to be after Kyle's sweet ass, not Tweek's.

"You talked to him!" Kenny chirps, like he's a bird or something, pulling me into a half-hug, half-really awkward thing.

"Ah…ha, yes, I did," I reply, patting his shoulder, unsure of what to do. He's the brightest thing in the room. The rest of us are wearing dull grey shirts that barely even have the name of the high school visible in dark green lettering with matching green shorts. Kenny still has on his orange parka, although it's unzipped and the sleeves are rolled up, he's like some sort of beacon of energy, way happier than I've seen him in a while, although that could just be an act.

"I can tell," Kenny says, solemnly as he lets me go, nodding, "I can just tell. So?" He pokes my stomach and I have to writhe away and fight back laughter. "How did it go, you stupid fuck?"

"You're so sweet," I say, batting my eyelashes at him as he grins at me. "And he outright denied me."

"What?" Kenny says, shock filling his eyes. He's suddenly looking across the gym at Tweek who is currently fighting to keep Bebe from touching his hair, screaming something about lice. Bebe is trying to get a word in edgewise, stammering out how she doesn't have lice and will he calm down. It's nice to know that he won't calm down unless I go over there and convince him to do so. "But he likes you," Kenny says slowly, stressing every word.

"You must have been wrong, he made it quite clear he'd rather we were simply friends," I say, with a shrug. I've thought it over and, yeah, it hurts like hell, but I can't do anything about it besides accept the fact and try to move on, so Kenny should be able to deal with it too.

"No, you don't get it, I _talked _to him and this wasn't supposed to happen!" Kenny spits at the gym floor, looking infuriated. He isn't happy or at all bird-like anymore, just furious and clenching his fists in livid anger. "I told you, you two are practically – no, you two _are _meant for each other," he continues, glaring at Tweek now. "What the _fuck_ happened to change his mind…"

"Uh, Kenny?" I say, tentatively. Watching him like this amuses me in a way, but I still know it's not a good thing to be on his bad side at times like this. The blond turns to look at me, raising an eyebrow. "I kind of think you're wrong about that." He opens his mouth but, for once, nothing comes out. I've caught him off guard, I'm supposed to be squealing like a schoolgirl about the fact that he thinks we're meant for each other. "What does that even mean? How can two people be _meant _for each other? It's not that I doubt you, but, how could you even begin to know that?"

"I just know, okay?" Kenny responds, his voice low. I hadn't noticed that people were starting to look at us a bit funny, but he obviously has. Everyone is probaby wondering why we're discussing love during gym class. "I talk to other people besides you and I don't go prancing off to everyone and telling them what they said, it's not something I do alright? I don't suppose you told Butters that I think I don't – that thing I said, did you?"

"Well, no," I admit, calming down a bit. "But this is completely different."

"I can't," Kenny says with a sigh. "I _can't _understand it, though, Craig. I really thought…when I talked to him, the day before the snow day when I talked to you, he seemed happy at the idea, y'know? He was worried you wouldn't talk to him about it and I told him you would and then I did the whole bitch fit with you so you really would, but I don't just don't get why he would do that. I mean, why…," he finishes with a sigh, gesturing towards Tweek.

By now the volleyball nets are up and we're supposed to be playing. Tweek is using Bebe as protection from the serves that Cartman is, admittedly, aiming very well at the two of them. What Kenny has just told me sinks in and, surprisingly, I'm not angry. I should be, Tweek essentially lied to me and ruined things when he didn't have to. Tweek is the only person I don't lie to and all of a sudden I find out he did that to me? Yeah, it should piss me off. But Kenny's wrong about one thing. For whatever reason, Tweek doesn't want me; we're not meant to be in the least.

"It doesn't matter why," I tell Kenny, "it's what he wants." That's all I need to say, because right now Tweek needs me to save him from some volleyballs. And I know Kenny's marveling at it, wondering what the hell I mean, because Kenny thinks I should be fighting for this, that I should want it more than anything, and that should be enough. He doesn't understand though, I guess, and maybe that's hard for him to admit, but he doesn't get it. I won't fight for Tweek if he doesn't want me to. I may not always be the most rational person, but I know when I'm not wanted and Tweek doesn't want me, no matter what Kenny says.

I don't know why he doesn't, I'd love for him to explain that to me, why he told Kenny one thing and then made me believe something completely different. But, while I grab one of the volleyballs and throw it directly at Cartman, knocking him to the ground, I think I kind of have an idea of why he did it. I flip Cartman off and smile at Tweek and he smiles back, but I think I get it, especially when I see him smile. I'd probably bet my life on it, actually.

Tweek is worried about everything, he always has been, and with us as best friends he's safe and secure within that zone, but as unthreatening as I mean it to be, the fact that I want things to go further than that _is _a threat to him. He's worried that it will destroy everything we have right now, that everything will change. Well, alright, that just furthers my belief that my decision is, in fact, final. I will kick this stupid addiction I have, and I don't mean smoking or lying or flipping people off.

I mean this stupid addiction – the one I have to my best friend or, more accurately, the one I have to wanting him as something more than just that.

* * *

Time always goes by fastest when you want it to go slow. The ultimate mindfuck, I suppose. Usually when I sit around with Tweek and watch movies I'm bored to death and they drag on for what seems like days. But ever since he told me he was going to be gone for a week the movies are over in the blink of an eye. It's not just the movies either, it's the fact that every minute with Tweek is a second now because I know he'll be gone, both literally and figuratively a lot sooner than I would like him to be.

Yes, Tweek is just leaving for a week and yes he'll be back after that week but it's going to be different or at least I plan on it being different. Maybe Tweek isn't the one leaving; maybe it's me in a way. In a really weird way, yeah, I guess I am. It's not at all like me to just give up like I plan on doing. Typically I would pursue him until he was sick of me and gave in just for respite from how annoying I would, no doubt, be acting.

With Tweek, that's just it, I'm sure I could do that to him, I'm sure he would give in at some point even though he wouldn't want to for whatever reason. With everyone else that never mattered. They didn't have to actually love me or, hell, even like me, they just had to give me what I wanted and I was fine with it. Everyone that I've ever wanted has been just that, someone that I wanted, not like Tweek. I don't just want Tweek, I need him.

I would lose him. I'm relatively sure of that fact. I would hurt him or fuck things up and I know I would because that's what I always do. And after that who's to say if we would even be friends? It's a scary thought and it honestly makes me think a bit more than I generally would. I think I've seen movies where people come to conclusions like this. I would rather have Tweek as my best friend than to have him as something more when he really doesn't want it and then to lose him completely.

The problem is, this isn't a movie. Because in a movie I would come to that conclusion and by some delightful twist of fate Tweek would realize he's madly in love with me and that whatever is preventing him from wanting to be with me is completely nonsensical and then we would sing a song about it or something. In a movie we would be guaranteed a happy ending and the only people who would end up unhappy would be whoever the antagonist is.

Sorry to say, but, if this was a movie, I would be the antagonist. This wouldn't be my movie at all. It would probably be Stan and Kyle's or Kenny's or something. I would be some side character doing stupid things to ruin his life and theirs until they realized I was a bastard and everyone stopped talking to me. By the end of the movie no one would even care that I hadn't gotten what I wanted because I'm not meant to be liked or supported by anyone.

I guess I'm kind of glad my life isn't a movie. I don't like the idea of not being the main character, but I'm just not the kind of person who would be. It's definitely Kyle, I think; he's the epitome of stereotypical main characters. He has the hero-complex for it, thinking he has to save everyone. Or maybe that's more like Kenny. I don't even know anymore, nor do I want to contemplate it. If someone made a movie about South Park, I doubt anyone would even want to watch.

Kyle, though, is being rather emblematic, very main character-esque. He's crushed Stan who, though he tries to hide it, is dissipating before everyone's eyes. Luckily, for us and them, he hasn't had to resort to the Goth Kids. Kenny is talking to Stan more than usual and we're all kind of doing our part to make it seem like nothing has changed, even Kyle. Mainly because nothing did change, they never even really came out and told us they were together despite the fact that it was so obvious. Kyle is helping with Stan but it's just, he has this look in his eyes. I know he would rather be with Christophe when he's hanging out with us or with Stan, but he still does it.

The weirdest thing is how nice Cartman is being to Stan. Although, when I think about it, the two of them always have been friends in an awkward way. It could just be manipulation on Cartman's part, but Stan doesn't like Kyle any less. Oh, yes, through everything Stan still thinks the redhead is worth his time. I don't know why and I don't want to think about why though there are a few things that come to mind. Stan just won't give up on the idea that his darling Jew is ever so perfect.

It's pathetic is all it is, but who am I to talk? We have talked, actually, Stan and I, about how much it sucks. It's mostly Stan talking, though, and mostly me listening because I know he needs that. He doesn't talk me nearly as much as he talks to Kenny and Cartman, of course, but we do talk more than we would have had this all not happened. It's a weird thing to bond over, but we make it work.

Christophe and I avoid anything having to do with the matter. I see him less and less as the days pass and he sees Kyle more and more. When we do talk, mostly on the phone or a few times when Kyle is with Stan and we're both in the mood for a smoke, we talk about everything but what he wants to talk about. I'm sure he'd love to tell me every little detail about his relationship with the redhead, but I'm not hearing any of it. I don't bother him with Tweek and most of the time he just teaches me French.

When Christophe is with Kyle, I think, it kind of changes him. I should have realized the change back when they were dating before, or whatever they want to call it. He becomes the Mole very rarely and has a slightly more tolerant view of God and love and all that shit. He talks more about his stupid his mother is and even mentions his brother from time to time when I thought that topic was long dead. It's for the best that we hang out less, really, since I don't like him as much when he's not so cynical.

Now Kenny is perplexed about everything. He told Kyle to be with Stan, but now Kyle is with Christophe. He thought Tweek and I were going to have a magical, gay little happy ending and that's not going as planned. His advice system is falling apart and I know that's shocking to him because he's told me. For the most part he's morosely happy, which is a paradox in and of itself, but somehow possible with him. It's like things are going well in some ways, but terrible in other ways and he can't keep control over it, much less his emotions.

There is one thing to look forward to amongst all this chaos, Kenny has decided. My birthday, that I don't even want to celebrate. I have an early birthday so I'm turning eighteen while the rest of them are all seventeen. I don't like that or even the idea of being eighteen, really. To be completely honest, though I'm not even that with myself, it scares me a whole fucking lot. Not the whole responsibility shit I know my parents will throw in my face, but just the weight of it. Eighteen and I'm still…everything. I've never done anything worth talking about, I want to go back and do it all over again.

Every time I think about it I want to throw up. I just hate it, fuck, I really do. I try and remind myself that I can buy alcohol legally once I'm eighteen and move out if I really want to. It's weird though, how one day you wake up and suddenly you're legally an adult, when I still feel like a kid half my age. No one else seems worried about it; in fact they've all said something about how lucky I am to be turning eighteen when I am.

Except for Tweek. He doesn't say a word about my birthday and it isn't just because he won't be here for it, there's something else that prevents him from mentioning it. I don't know when Tweek started hiding things from me, but I really don't like it. We spend most of our time together and somehow I'm still unaware of things about him. Fuck, he knows _everything _about me. Or…maybe that's not accurate.

Tweek doesn't know everything and I become very aware of that fact while we're driving down the highway towards the airport in late December. I somehow managed to do two very impressive things. I convinced my mother, by lying of course, that I should drive Tweek to the airport, because 'there's a chance I might never see him again.' Normally she wouldn't pay the price of gas to drive all the way up here, much less even drive the thing, but she got all sad when I said that and simpered that I could use the car for the whole day if I needed to.

That done I had to convince Tweek's parents that I should drive him there and that I would get there on time and that we would actually show up and I wasn't planning on kidnapping him so he didn't have to go. The kidnapping bit was Tweek's contribution to his parent's mild worry that I was going to go ahead and be a reckless asshole and ruin their little family-vacation-Harbucks-convention thing. No idea where that came from. Since when have I been reckless?

"Are you going to miss me?" Tweek asks, and that's what makes me aware of the fact that Tweek does not know everything about me.

"Don't ask stupid questions," I tell him, simply. If there's one thing I'm terrible at its driving and talking at the same time. I lose concentration on one of them eventually and either say the wrong thing or get into an accident.

"Oh God, I'm sorry," Tweek mutters so I can just barely hear him. I would look over at him to see what he's doing, but I have enough distractions as it is and staring at him wouldn't be helping any. I know him well enough to know what he's doing anyway, probably tugging at some of his golden hair and biting his lip while his mind races through things to say. "Why – gah – why was that a s-stupid question?" he asks after a few minutes.

"Because," I say, not adding much to the single word for a moment as I accelerate and try to think ahead so I don't get lost in my words and crash into anyone, "of course, I will, and you know I will and it's a pointless question. You know the answer to it so you don't need to ask it." It's all a bit choppy and almost cold sounding, but it's only that way because I'm trying to divide my attention as well as I can between the two things I'm doing right now.

"Oh," Tweek says. I see, out of the corner of my eye, that he kind of slouches in his seat.

"Regardless of all that," I say, biting my lip and, admittedly, concentrating more on what I'm saying than I should, "yeah, I will. I'll miss you a lot. You do realize you're going to have to call me all the time."

"I was already going to!" he exclaims, jumping forward in his seat a little. "Just to make sure – ngh – that you d-don't die or something." I smile at that and I know he doesn't understand how or why because in Tweek's mind it's very probable that I'll end up dying and the world will blow up or something while he's in Seattle. So me smiling is weird to him because he considers that very plausible and obviously there's no reason to smile about from his perspective.

"I'm not going to die, Tweek," I assure him as we pull off of the highway, nearing the airport. "I might miss you a lot but not _that _much."

"Jesus Christ, Craig!" he yells, causing me to nearly crash into the car in front of me because it makes me laugh, though I do try to hide it. "I didn't mean that y-you would do that!"

"I know, calm down," I tell him. We pull up to a red light and in the short moment that we're stopped I run a hand through his messy hair and fix it as best as I can. He shudders a little, but relaxes as the light turns green. "It's only going to be a week. You just have to call me and tell me happy birthday and Christmas and whatever else you feel like telling me. I won't have much to do with you gone anyway."

"You can hang out with Token and Clyde," he offers, softly. I know he's looking at me now. For what, I have no idea, and I don't have the time or ability to look over at him and assess his golden eyes to decide if he's worried or upset or what.

"Not the same without you," I tell him, shortly, with a slight edge to my voice. "And don't tell me I can hang out with Christophe, because he's with Kyle all the time. I'll probably just talk to Stan and Kenny when they're not busy and watch Red Racer and smoke a lot. Nothing dangerous about any of that, really." Well except for the fact that cigarettes have the warning that they could, you know, kill you. But whatever.

"You'll answer whenever I call you?" he asks, once again making his voice barely audible. I don't answer for a few minutes because, well, first off, how the hell am I supposed to answer that? And, anyway, we're pretty much at the airport and I'm concentrating on getting to the right parking lot and not killing anyone in the process.

"Yeah," I finally tell him, "call me at one in the morning if you have to. I'll be a little bitchy, sure, but I'll talk to you."

After that we're quiet, all while I park and stop the car and we just sit there for a few minutes to silence that isn't comfortable but isn't unwelcome either. I think we both need these minutes to think, maybe we both know this is kind of a turning point. That once Tweek gets back something is going change even if neither one of us knows exactly what that change is going to entail. Even if I do somehow, miraculously, get over him while he's gone, I don't know what that will mean for us.

There's always the possibility that I never will get over him. I'm not retarded, I know a week isn't going to fix everything, but I like to think I can make a good start of things and show him, when he gets back, that I do intend to listen to what he wants, whether I understand it or not, and back off. I can only hope that that will be good enough. Tweek is the only person I would ever be willing to do this for. The only person that I care enough about to go through all of this for. The only person that I can sit next to and hold back the urge to be something more than a friend to him for the sole reason that is his rejection of those feelings.

Anyone else would either be mine or be nothing to me, but Tweek can be everything to me without doing everything I want him to.

"You should probably go," I tell him, finally, my voice sounding weird. It's a mixture of this deep sadness I feel from the situation I'm in and the fact that it's so silent and I'm trying to keep that serene quiet feeling that we have right now. We both get out of the car and for a second I don't know why. I drove him up here but he's not a kid, he's the same age I am and he can find his parents and his plane. It's not a big airport at all; I know he'll be fine.

It's only when he pulls me into a hug that I realize why we both got up, that we really need to say good-bye. Not just to each other, but to everything. He knows this is more than your usual farewell and I know it is. This is probably the last time I'll hug Tweek, I mean the last time I _really _will. The last time I'll actually hold him and tell him everything is going to be alright, one of my hands finding its way into his hair.

He really smells good, like coffee, which I would have expected, but there's this fainter smell that I recognize as cigarettes, and that's the best thing. Tweek doesn't smoke, his parents don't smoke, no one else he hangs around with smokes. It's because of me that there's the smell of smoke lingering on him and as sick as that sounds, that really makes me happy. Not that he might get second-hand smoke from me or something, it's simply the fact that I've had some affect on him when he's had so many on me without even realizing it.

We part and he takes my hand for a quick moment and doesn't protest when I kiss him on the cheek and tell him he better call me soon softly. He gets his stuff, his suitcase and his thermos, he doesn't need much else, and then he's off on his own, with a parting smile to me, no words needed. Watching him walk away is hard, not only because he's gone, but also because I know Tweek doesn't need my help right now. All he has to do is get on the plane and maybe he'll freak out and think it's going to crash, maybe then he'll think about me or something. I hope he does.

A plane that I know isn't Tweek's takes off in the distance as I get back in the car and I watch it for a few long – _obscenely_ long – minutes until I can barely see it in the sky. It's a bit surreal really. I've been on a plane before, a lot of times, actually, I've been all over the country and even to other countries but it's never really mattered. A week of vacation here or there never bothers anyone. But, somehow, Tweek barely even going across the country is a huge deal between the two of us.

The silence in the car is harder to deal with than I would have thought. I end up turning on the radio to one of those really gay advice stations, where you can call in and ask some guy who pretends to know psychology what you should do with your life. I'm almost tempted to call in and ask him what to do with myself. I doubt he would even know what to say. I hope that Kenny gets one of those shows one day, he'd have the best damn radio advice station in the fucking – in the world. I turn off the radio after a while and sit in silence for the rest of the drive back to my house.

No one is home when I get there and there's some note on the fridge that my mom and sister are at the movies and will be home later. I also look at the cat calendar and, sure enough, under the picture of a cat and a snowman, there's a row of black X's letting me know my dad is in Las Vegas for a week, earning his money however he does so. Let's pray he gets a good hand in poker. Underneath one of the X's you can make out where my mom wrote that it's my birthday. It's really tiny, scrunched handwriting, like she doesn't want me to turn eighteen anymore than I do.

I find the black permanent marker my father uses to cross out the days that he's gone and draw a thick line all the way from today through Christmas and then step back and admire my work. There we go. I've successfully destroyed all of the time that Tweek will be gone. It no longer exists on the ridiculous cat calendar. I go on to X out every single day of the month. Just so my family knows. It doesn't matter if my dad is here or not, he's never at home.

I go to my room and fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I don't dream so much as my mind picks up recluse memories and plays them like old home videos. Being in the hospital with Tweek all the way back in third grade. English class in seventh grade when Tweek sat next to me and we never even acted like the other existed. That time that he spilt coffee in Clyde's mom's car and almost had a nervous breakdown. More recent things, too, like watching Red Racer together, that horrible mistake of a kiss and, finally, the faint smell of cigarettes and coffee, my favorite addiction. At around one in the morning, my phone rings and I pick it up.

**A/N**: We'll see who's on the phone next time. Anyway, I know Craig's age isn't technically canon, but hell, someone needed to have a birthday. And I had actually had it in my mind that he was the oldest from the beginning, just because he's so contrastingly childish in his attitude that it must be divine irony, if you catch my drift. Stan is the youngest, as he should be, in my mind. Not that any of that really matters, but I felt like saying it anyway. Oh, me, I never do shut up, do I? You should review now, because I would appreciate it very much.  
Until next time, tweekers


	13. Have Faith In What You Feel

**Addict**

**A/N**: Awesome news, you awesome people! Addict has officially reached the 100,000 word count. I never thought it would be that long, nor did I think it would ever have as many reviews as it has. Both are really thanks to all of you guys, so pat yourself on the back or whatever you want to do. This chapter is sadly devoid of Tweek, but it's pretty obvious how Craig feels – well, just read, you'll see.  
Also, only one more chapter after this and then an epilogue. Surprising or what?  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

**Chapter Thirteen**: Have Faith In What You Feel

"Can I come over?" I nearly fall off my bed. I was expecting Tweek's voice on the other line, telling me the radiator at the hotel was going to explode or something like that, but instead Stan is asking me if he can come over to my house? _My _house? People don't come over to my house unless they're possessive Jews or paranoid coffee-addicts and that's final. Not even French boys with split-personalities are allowed here. At least not when they're crazy-in-love with said possessive Jew.

Besides its _Stan _we're talking about. Oh, sure, he's been at Cartman's house for four days, with the sole purpose of being somewhere that Kyle won't go I'm guessing. And, yeah, he has been pathetic and quiet lately, probably in need of someone to be around all the time. But it's still Stan, normal, grounded, typical Stan. He's never been over to my house. I've been over to his, but the last time I was there was for his birthday in fifth grade. I hate to break it to him, but we're not in fifth grade anymore.

"Why?" I ask, looking at the clock next to my bed. Its two minutes after one in the morning. One in the morning, Stan! It figures that the one time he calls me and wants to come over to my house it's one in the fucking _morning_. Maybe he functions on some weird break-up clock where one in the morning really means 'Call Craig and go over to his house for the first time in the history of your life.' I went to bed pretty early, so at least I'm not tired, but that doesn't mean I'm any happier about the situation.

"Cartman just kicked me out," he says, quietly, to the point where I almost want to ask him to repeat himself because I'm not sure if I got that.

"Why?" I repeat, not in the mood to say much else. And because if the reason Cartman kicked Stan out was because he talks in his sleep he isn't going to have any luck in staying at my house either. I have a pretty good guess what Stan dreams about and I don't feel like hearing about it all night.

"Because I wouldn't play video games in the middle of the night while I'm trying to sleep," Stan says, his tone suddenly an angry one. "Before you ask, Craig, no, you're not the first person I called. I almost just went to Kenny's but there's no way in hell I'm staying at his house. And…and, okay, you are the first person I called. I almost called Kyle but I know he would let me stay over and I can't do that."

"You're insightful," I say, sighing. "Why don't you stay at your own house, though? Seriously, dude, it's probably better if you stay there."

"Uh, alright," he says, "you try it, and then try to tell me its better. My parents think Kyle and I just aren't best friends anymore and think it's a great idea to talk about everything I've ever done with him, well, everything they know I've done with him. I don't know why, but they don't shut up about him. And my sister is visiting from college for Christmas and every few seconds she's asking me why I'm not with him and – you'd think she's the one in love with him."

"Jesus, Stan, fine, come over to my house, but don't expect to like it here," I tell him after a few seconds of silence on my part. Then, without waiting for a response, I hang up on him and throw my cell phone across the room, more angry at myself than anything. Just because I can relate to what Stan is going through, in a weird, fucked up way, admittedly, doesn't mean I have to feel so bad for him. He has to get over Kyle at some point and he shouldn't need my help, or anyone else's, to do it.

My God, I'm the poster child for hypocrites everywhere.

One good thing is that my father is in Las Vegas and that means one less parenting force to be reckoned with. I know my mom won't be happy with Stan arriving in the middle of the night, but hopefully her penchant for my friends will overpower that. Plus, since Stan has never been over before she'll kind of have to make a good impression on him, or at the very least apologize if she kills me in front of him. She'll like Stan, though, he can be polite when he wants to and his normalcy will be a good thing in her book.

It doesn't matter by this point though, whether it was some calculated plan or Stan really meant what he said, I do feel bad for him. I'm not suddenly empathetic or anything, but he got me with those last few words. I never really considered it, that Stan might really be in love Kyle. Sure, I always knew he loved him, in at least the way that best friends love each other. But _in _love is a lot different. You can love anyone, but you can't be in love with anyone, there's a whole new meaning to the word when you express it like that.

He's still sleeping on the couch. Being in love with someone doesn't mean you get your own bed. Actually, it would probably be better if he slept in the basement. Chances are, my mom waking up to find some random teenager sleeping in the living room will not result in a happy morning for all. I go downstairs to make sure things are relatively nice and they are. We have this little area down there where my dad watches sports and stuff, since my mom can't stand anything having to do with scoring systems and running around and, honestly, neither can I.

I do get stuck looking at some stuff down there that I haven't seen in ages. There are a few yearbooks and, I'll admit it, that's what catches my eye. There are a couple from middle school and it's funny to see us all in our own little worlds. None of us look happy even if we're smiling in the pictures. The only picture I can find of any of us together is one of Stan and I, ironically enough. I remember the teacher paired us together for science and we had to work together on everything for a whole year. At the time they took the picture Stan has a forced smile and I guess it sort of looks like I'm reading my science book or something, but to me it's pretty obvious that I'm less than interested in what it says.

Our ninth grade yearbook is vastly different. We all managed to be in it a million times because Kyle's mom forced him to work for the yearbook that year and he abused it to take pictures of whatever the fuck we were doing even though most of it has nothing to do with school. There's actually a picture where you can tell I have a cigarette in my hand. I didn't realize I was that stupid in ninth grade. Seriously, how retarded was I?

My nostalgia is interrupted by the fact that I can hear my mom yelling for me to get my ass into the living room right now or I'm not going to have an eighteenth birthday. For a brief moment I stay where I am, weighing the pros and cons of that situation, but in the end it's best to go upstairs since they would never find my body if she killed me and that's not entirely appealing.

Once I get upstairs I can gather what happened. Stan obviously knocked or rang the doorbell and, because I was busy being a reflective fag in the basement, my mom answered the door. Stan didn't wake her up though, I can tell, since she has a glass of something that looks suspiciously like alcohol, but for the sake of my fragile mind, I'll pretend its iced tea. "You," she says, gesturing for me to come closer to the door with the glass. "Did you invite your friend over in the middle of the night?"

"Yeah," I tell her with a nod. Stan looks extremely uncomfortable, mainly because he's still outside and my mom must look like a crazy drunk to him or something. "Mom, it's Stan Marsh, it's not a big deal, let him in the house." We have this amusing moment that should be in a movie or something, because my mom stares at me and Stan just shifts about an inch and I end up walking over and practically dragging him into the house.

"Sharon's son?" my mom says, eyeing Stan wearily and then sighing. "I'm too tired for this. You can explain it to my tomorrow."

"She won't even remember this tomorrow," I assure Stan as I lead him downstairs. I'm trying not to let my anger show, but since when has that ever worked for me? My mom stopped drinking 'iced tea' ages ago, and I can easily figure why she's starting to do it again. Back when my father and she were in counseling for a few 'little' problems, one of the conditions was that she stopped drinking. Drinking 'iced tea,' of course. But when my father isn't here and when her kids are supposed to be sleeping that must not count.

"Oh, she seems really…my mom doesn't like her," Stan admits.

"I don't blame your mom," I tell him, making a face at the thought of how annoying it must be to have my mother, a vicious gossip when she wants to be, talk to you as a friend. She could rival Kyle's mom in bitchiness, but luckily – if you can really use that word – isn't loud and boisterous about things. "Right, well," I say, motioning to the couch, "you can stay here. If you're dying of hunger we have food and you can have some. If you're bored there's this new-fangled thing called a television. So, you know, sweet dreams and all that." I turn to leave until I hear Stan say something.

"I wanted to talk to you." I could care less if Stan wants to talk to me, but, Jesus, he says that _really _weird. Like, well, he doesn't want to talk and that's a bit of a surprise, so I turn around and raise my eyebrows. Stan looks tired and I don't just mean he looks like he needs to sleep more. He looks physically and emotionally exhausted and I can understand why. Why do I choose times like these to be so giving?

"Fine, I'm not doing anything tomorrow anyway, might as well talk to you," I say, dejectedly. I really don't like the way Stan looks at me though. I am not going to be his sexual savior.

A few minutes later we're sitting on the couch. I'm trying to make it clear he is not going to sit on my lap or anywhere near it and he gets the hint. "You know, Kyle and I never really did anything," he tells me. I snort and look at him. "No, really, that's why I started to realize something was off about the whole thing. I mean, at first I thought he was just…nervous about it or something, but then after what you did…"

"Whoa, don't blame me for this whole thing," I say, holding up my hands. "That little charade that ended in the entire school knowing that I bat for both teams? Not my idea. It was Christophe's and I really didn't want anything to do with it until he brought Tweek into it." As soon as I mention Tweek I don't want to look at Stan anymore. So far I've been pretty obvious to everyone and while Stan knows how I feel he doesn't the extent to which my feelings go and as far as I'm concerned he has no right to.

"I know," Stan says, his voice bitter. "Kyle told me everything. Long after I need to hear it, naturally. All of a sudden he can tell me everything. It's funny because I thought he was always supposed to do that. I did that. He's always known everything about me. Now I feel like I don't even know him at all. Everything he has done, everything he never really did. There's this whole side to him I never knew about."

"More like what you didn't want to know about him." Stan kind of glares at me, but too fucking bad. I'm not going to tell him what he wants to hear. Things never turn out well when you do that. "I'm not saying Kyle has some double life, but in a way he does. Christophe does the same thing. They're a lot alike. It's almost obvious when you think about it. I didn't notice it, but you know what, Stan? I'm not his best friend."

"Neither am I!" Stan exclaims angrily.

"You don't mean that," I scoff. He can't mean that. If – he can't mean that. That's impossible. If Stan and Kyle can't survive something like this there's no hope for me. We're talking Stan and Kyle, so close that no one would have blinked if they had actually come out. Stan and Kyle, the only two to actually stay relatively close during middle school. It was like natural progression that they went out. The chain of events was natural, the story was practically written down for them, they just had to follow it.

"I do mean that," Stan shoots back at me. "How would you know anyway, Craig? You don't know what happened. Kyle has explained everything to me. Every single thing. More than I probably have a right to know, actually. I know that he used me. Do you even know why they ended their little affair? And I don't mean what you assumed happen or what you heard happen. I doubt you know why."

That's hard to answer. Stan knows I've assumed things and what I've assumed is that Kyle ended things. That maybe Kenny had something to do with it as well. Indirect suggestions, at least, that the Jew might dump the French boy for his best friend. And, I had assumed, Kyle took those suggestions and did something about it, regretted it and gotten rid of Stan. But, now I'm starting to think I was wrong. Apparently there's a lot more going on than I thought.

"Christophe dumped Kyle," I say. Voicing it makes it a lot more final, especially when Stan nods. Suddenly I'm reminded of the note that Christophe left Kyle when he returned the redhead's hat almost a month ago. I knew the note was personal at the time, but maybe it was a lot more personal than I had guessed. I can't imagine Christophe breaking up with someone face to face. He's harsh and cynical, but I wouldn't doubt for a second that the note was his way of breaking up.

"And, yet, Kyle was the one who went back to him," he says, his voice quieter now. "I guess, from what Kyle's told me, they're doing just great." He's scowling at nothing in particular, reaching his hand up to his hair. I can tell he's not used to it being as short as it is now. Ever since he got it cut he's kept it short, but messy, almost like Christophe's. Like, in some sad way, he's trying to be like the one person Kyle loves more than him.

"He told you that?" I ask, almost breathless at the idea. Stan nods, but doesn't say anything, his glare steady. That pisses me off, more than I thought it would. Where does Kyle get off saying things like that to Stan? I'm sure he didn't actually come up to Stan and say something like: 'Hey, way happier without you!' That's not like Kyle. But he must have said something, whether he meant to or not, and after everything that's happened you would think he would understand how something like that would make Stan feel.

"Well, not exactly," Stan says after a few moments. "He just – I asked him how he was doing, you know? At first I could barely talk to him, but then the other day I thought, alright, I have to do this sometime. So I just asked him that stupid little question. He was talking about something, trying out for basketball next year or – I don't know, it doesn't matter. I said 'Kyle, how are you doing?' It was all I could think to say. And he tells me, just turns to me and smiles and tells me things are going great."

"Maybe he was just happy you were talking," I offer. "I know what that feels like. He probably didn't even realize the implication of what he was saying."

"No, Craig," Stan says, shaking his head, this weird smile on his face. "I saw his eyes when he said it. I'm sure he wasn't thinking. I know he didn't mean to say what he said, he's been really careful not to mention anything. But he did say it, whether he meant to or not. I can't even stand to be near him anymore. That's why I was at Cartman's. Normally he would go there, I know he would, to see me, but going there after that, I was telling him something. I don't want anything to do with Kyle Broflovski anymore."

"You don't mean that," I repeat. But Stan does mean it. I've been identifying with him too much and it's scary. I know that there's no way all this is going to happen to Tweek and I and, furthermore, no way I would ever allow myself to get trapped in it. But what does 'no way' even mean anymore. In sixth grade there was no way I would ever be friends with Stan again. Last year there was no way I was attracted to guys. No way doesn't mean anything a second after you decide on it.

I'm saying he doesn't mean it because I want to believe that if I was in that situation I wouldn't mean it. I want to think that I could go through all of that but still stay best friends with Tweek. But if Stan can get rid of Kyle that easily, if he can really mean what he said, well, once again, I can't even begin to have hope that I would act any differently. And, I'll be honest; this is one of the worst things I've ever felt. I wasn't planning on giving up hope when I gave up Tweek.

"Dude," is all I can say, with a stupid sigh. Really intelligent, I know, but what else am I supposed to say? I can't blame Stan for what he's decided when I can't say exactly what I would do in his situation. I may be a hypocrite, but even that's a bit of a stretch for me.

"I have to admit," he says with a smile that might or might not be completely genuine, "being here is a lot better than being at Cartman's."

"Yeah," I say, skeptically, "I live in a regular wonderland."

"Compared to Cartman's," Stan mutters. "And, besides, you aren't asking me about Wendy."

"Wendy?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at the mention of her.

"Yes, Craig, Wendy," he replies. "Cartman wants to know everything last thing about her. Which is just weird, I don't know everything about her in the first place and even if I did…it's just fucking _weird_ to tell him some of the stuff he wants to know. He thinks I'm lying too, that's why he really made me leave. He asked me about all these things and I told him I didn't know and he thinks I'm lying."

"He asked you about things," I state, blandly. "Since it is Cartman we're talking about here, things could be anything in the world. I can't imagine it's her opinion on anything, since it's her mission in life to make sure we all know how she feels about everything. I'm just trying to think of what both you and Cartman wouldn't know about her." The tone of my voice stays the same, verging on sarcastic, because I have a pretty good idea of what Cartman would ask about; it's just that I have no idea why Stan wouldn't know about it.

Stan looks at a loss for words. He hasn't really lost them, I suppose, but he's struggling to find them. It's because he doesn't want to, I know, he doesn't want to tell me. Definitely, he's reevaluating the situation, wondering why he's talking to me in my basement at two in the morning now. Why it's come to this. Why he didn't go to Kenny's instead, because it would be a hell of a lot easier to tell him this.

"Simply put," he says – and by the sound of his voice I can tell there's nothing 'simply put' about this –, "I'm a virgin. And the information Cartman wants…if I knew it, I wouldn't be."

"Oh, sick," I say, but my voice is more awed than anything. No fucking way! I want to shout that at him and punch him. Actually punch him. No fucking way! "Not the virgin thing, I mean," I quickly let him know when his eyes widen. Yeah, because Stan needs my approval to let him know its okay he's never had sex. I am, after all, so experienced in these matters. "Then I would be sick too." Or not. "I meant Cartman wanting to know about it."

"That's what I said," Stan says.

"Before or after Cartman kicked you out?" I ask, smiling and blinking at him. I am the epitome of innocent. Well, at least I look like it when I want to.

"Cartman didn't kick me out, I left," he tells me.

"You lied about a lot of shit," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Craig," he says, turning to look me in the eye, "you do realize that you accusing me of lying is like Kyle calling someone a self-centered Jew." I laugh a little, but, hell, he's right about that. Kyle is a self-centered Jew, I mean, I'm not a liar. "By the way," Stan begins, sitting forward and reading into the front pocket of the jacket he's wearing to pull something out, "look what I found earlier." I take it from him and look at it for a moment, then back up at him in surprise, or maybe shock. Maybe I'm just a little hurt and then I look back.

"Never thought I would see _this _again," I say, quietly, to the photograph I hold in my hands.

* * *

"One day, Craig," Kenny says, holding up one gloved finger and grinning at me. "Don't think of it as a limitation. Still enough time to change your mind. I can call a few people and they can call a few people and everyone can bring really cheap, shitty beer. You won't even remember it's your birthday, dude. We can all just get fucking wasted." He's still got a thing about having some sort of a party for my birthday.

"I don't doubt you could do it," I tell him, matching his smile, but mine is fake, "I just doubt I would enjoy it."

"Aww, come on." Kenny has everyone on his side, even Stan now. But I think they all just want an excuse to get drunk and not think about anything. If that's the case, I've told them a million times, they should just get drunk then. Since when is there a law that says that isn't allowed? Well, I mean, besides the fact that we legally aren't supposed to have ever tasted alcohol. No one ever said you needed a reason to drink it, so they shouldn't be so worried about it right now.

"I don't blame him," Cartman says. He's walking a few feet behind us and we all turn to look at him in surprise. "I bet poor Craigy boy doesn't feel like celebrating ever since he lost his French fag." Oh, right, Cartman's an asshole. How do I always manage to forget these things? We all turn around again, not before I flip him off of course. I'm angrier than usual, but I'll just attribute that to my lack of sleep. I've been so off balance lately though, ever since – I don't even want to think about it.

"I'm just saying," Kenny just says, "there's no reason not to celebrate a little bit. You know, maybe we won't tell anyone it's your birthday. Make it out to be some sort of coincidence. Hell, play it off as a Christmas party! That way we don't even have to invite the Jew and it's not a big deal. Wouldn't want to infringe on his Hebrew heritage." Kenny has been, out of all of us, the worst towards Kyle. I'll give him one thing, Kenny is one protective son of a bitch.

Stan looks happy at the prospect of a Jewless Christmas party and I can't say I feel any different. None of us are thrilled with Kyle. None of us are even close to being thrilled with him. Cartman's thrilled because of this. We don't hate Kyle, at least I don't. In a way, I sympathize with him. He chose what made him happy and that made everything else fall apart. But he made a huge mistake when he decided to be more than platonic with Stan and that's where I don't feel bad for him.

"Do what you want," I say with a sigh and I can practically see Kenny's mind shift into overdrive as he starts to think about how to orchestrate this. "But don't do it at my house." The blond scowls and mutters something, because now he has to figure out where to have this thing and my house is off limits. Cartman moans about how he's hungry and Stan tells him to shut up, we'll be there soon.

When he says that Stan looks pretty happy. He has the right to, admittedly. We're going to this place we went to years ago by accident. Accident might be the wrong word. It's not like we stumbled in by mistake. We were at the park, in fifth grade, for Stan's birthday. Most people celebrate birthdays on the actual, well, birthday. But Stan was going to be away the weekend of his birthday and somehow we ended up celebrating in late August, a week or so before middle school started. August in South Park is like purgatory between July and winter, the snow was more slush than anything and we begged Stan's mom to take us to the park and, after nearly an hour of pleading with her, she took us.

We were there for about ten minutes before it started raining and we had walked up to the park so we couldn't just drive away. Instead we ran into the nearest place we could find. It's one of those stupid diners that thinks somehow they can transport you back into the 50s just by putting up a few neon signs and making everything pastel colored. That's where we had Stan's birthday, though, and that's where we're going now. Not just us, either.

Everyone who was at the party is going to be there. Except for Kyle and Tweek – and Jimmy of course, but none of us would expect him to be there. Kyle doesn't belong with us anymore, not like that. Tweek has an excuse; he would be here if he wasn't in Seattle. I want him here, terribly. It's been twenty-four hours. I dropped him off at the airport at five in the afternoon yesterday and it's a little after five now. I've never felt this way. Maybe it's just – there's no excuse. I'm empty without Tweek next to me. Without him I can't do anything.

"Oh, _sweet_," Cartman says as we walk inside. He's directing the statement towards the smell of food, but I have the same sentiment. Mostly because, like the yearbooks, this place is epicly nostalgic. I remember where we sat, the booth all the way in the corner, the only one big enough to fit nine ten year-old boys, while Stan's mom sat in the smaller booth behind us, probably wishing the diner served some hard alcohol. Stan is the one to hurry to the booth though, brushing a gloved hand against the Formica tabletop, like somehow he can stir memories up into the air by doing so.

"This is fucking weird, dude," Kenny says. I think he's talking to himself, but I can't be sure. He follows Stan but instead of being a fag like the raven-haired boy he just sits down, sliding all the way to the window. "Really," he says, looking out the window and then back at Stan and I, "_really _fucking weird." Cartman is busy trying to convince a waitress to give him a free piece of pie. Maybe the whole pie, if she buys his 'I'm a sweet, caring boy' routine.

"Well," Stan says, sitting next to Kenny, "yeah it's weird, but think about it this way: Everything in South Park is weird."

"He's right," I say, sitting across from them.

"Hey – hey guys." Cartman squeezes into the booth with Kenny and Stan, a piece of pie in front of him. "I've got pie and none of you guys do," he gloats in a sing-song voice, that's almost as muffled as Kenny's when he has his hood up, as he stuffs a piece of pie into his mouth. We all ignore him; it's the principal of the thing. Cartman is part of our group whether we like it or not, but that doesn't mean we have to listen to any of the retarded bullshit that spews out of his mouth. Ironically, we talk about retarded bullshit while we wait for our other two members to show up - and when they do it's not exactly a warm welcome.

"Can someone tell me _why _we have to be here again?" No one tells Clyde, because we all know he's tired. It's before noon after all and he was probably watching porn all night anyway, so he doesn't want to be with us. I mean, the waitresses here are the kind of old ladies you think about when you want to get rid of a hard-on, not the opposite. Clyde looks tired and almost as angry as me, which is the complete one-eighty that his personality does when he hasn't gotten much sleep. Everyone is dressed except for him, he must have rolled out of bed and walked here with Token, who just rolls his eyes at us in greeting.

"Guess what!" Kenny cries, slamming his hands down on the table. Clyde jumps, elbowing my side and try to kick him, but end up kicking Stan instead who shrieks like an eight year-old girl. Basically, we're annoying all the old people and families here. None of the waitresses even bother to ask us what we want to eat although Cartman's eyeing the rest of the pie with unusual zeal.

"What, Kenny?" Stan asks, leaning forward to rub where I kicked his shin. I grin in apology.

"I said guess," the blond demands, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"You won the lottery," Clyde says, using a finger to grab a bit of whipped cream that was left on Cartman's plate from the pie.

"Why the fuck would I be _here _with you fuck-ups if I won the lottery?" Kenny asks. It's a valid statement. If I won the lottery I think I would be in – goddammit, I'd be in Seattle. Sometimes I really hate myself.

"Did you bang the counselor?" Token asks. That, on the other hand, is not a valid statement.

"Ew, gross," Kenny says, squinting at the words. "I draw the line at anyone who _chooses _to work at a school. There's something wrong with people like that." He's lying though, He'd have sex with Miss Something, I would, hell, we probably all would and we're all thinking about it right now. "Anyway," Kyle continues, "since you people are all retards and can't guess, I'll just tell you. I'm actually going to college."

"Kenny, you're too poor to go to college," Cartman supplies.

"It's called scholarships, fatass, and you've just proven that you'll never earn one." Kenny sounds pretty sure of himself when he says that, but Clyde makes a noise. It's a total I-didn't-get-enough-sleep Clyde noise. I wonder what kept him up all night and vow to, henceforth, spend the rest of my life killing it so that he does sleep and does not act like a jackass two percent of the time. Anyway, Clyde makes a noise and Kenny looks at him harshly. "_What_?"

"Nothing," Clyde says, shaking his head. We all look at him though, like, right, that was nothing. "Well it's just that, you know, no offense Kenny, but it's kind of late to all of a sudden – it…you know, it's not even that you're like Craig." That's original. I flip him off. Then again, I'm not really original either. "Oh, shut up, Craig, I mean you're the whole stereotypical doesn't-apply-himself douche bag. Statistically there can only be one of you, so Kenny you're like…you're the likeable not very smart one."

"I thought that was you, actually," I say. Because I did, maybe minus the 'likeable' part two percent of the time, but otherwise it's pretty accurate. "And, besides, statistically I think we're kind of fucked. Seriously, just consider it for a second. First off, I don't even think we're supposed to have someone who can die and come back to life. And we're way, _way _over the gay limit."

"True," Clyde admits, grimacing at that last bit. I don't think Clyde has a problem with gay people. Truthfully, how _can _he? He knows how I feel about Tweek and while I'm sure he and Token probably had some stupid conversation about the whole thing he isn't treating me any differently than he treats anyone else. Hell, talking statistics, where's our homophobic friends who ditches us when he finds out we're not all completely straight? "I'm just saying, though, Kenny, if you go anywhere other than the community college I'll pay your tuition."

"I'd much rather you sucked my balls," Kenny says with a grin.

"Oh, nasty, you guys, that is hella lame," Cartman says, grimacing.

"Oh, _don't _even go there Cartman," I say, "because I happen to recall a certain incident revolving around – "

If the world was about the explode I am fairly certain this is how we would all react. Stan's eyes get really wide because of course I was just about the reference Kyle. Kenny pretty much jumps onto the table – pretty much because he's basically just leaning across it to try and make me shut up, but he's more worried for the rest of us than himself. Token sighs at a volume I would have thought was impossible, displaying his utter disgust at the predictability that is his friends. Cartman jumps up like Kenny did only he wants to shut me up by punching me in the face. Clyde takes the opportunity to go buy something to eat, or rather, to hopefully get something for free from a gullible waitress.

Naturally Kenny plays the part of moderator, getting Cartman away from me. Cartman is way angrier than I would have expected, but again, he's never been good at taking joke, has he? It's just odd because other people have brought it up before and he usually just brushes it off, but all of a sudden because it's _me _it's a problem. And that really pisses me off, so of course I flip Cartman off while Kenny drags me towards the front of the diner. We pass Clyde who's bargaining with a tired looking waitress for some form of free food.

"You're retarded, you know that?" Kenny says, letting go of my arm as soon as we get outside.

"I was just making a point," I say defensively.

"I know," he says after a moment, frowning, he reaches out and touches my shoulder, like that's really going to be comforting. "Besides it was a good excuse to talk to you alone for a minute. I really needed to."

"What is it like to drown?" I ask suddenly, the statement surprising even myself. Kenny just sighs and takes his hand off my shoulder. For a minute I think he's going to run a hand through his hair. Something I would do, I guess. Instead he takes the hood of his parka and covers his blond hair with it. I know he's going to tell me and I almost wish I hadn't asked, his eyes look so melancholy now, not like they usually do. In all honesty I don't know how Kenny does it, I would have given up a long time ago if I was him.

"I guess it depends when it happens," he says, slowly, looking down at the ground the entire time. "It was really cold since the pond was frozen. A stupid way to go. If you're ever considering suicide, Craig, don't drown yourself. You feel like knives are stabbing at you, especially here." He puts a hand to his heart. "Then your body wants you to breathe, of course, but when the sky is made of ice, you're kind of stuck with breathing the water all around you. It doesn't work very well."

"I can imagine," I reply, slowly, digging in the pockets of my jacket until I pull out my gloves. It's freezing outside and it's odd that I notice it. I've lived in South Park my entire life and it's not that I'm used to the cold. You never get used to it, you become accustomed to it and aren't surprised by the cold, but it's not like you evolve into some superhuman who can stand below zero temperatures. Still, the only time I really notice the cold is when Tweek isn't with me.

"No," Kenny says, and I knew he would say it, "no, you can't imagine. People always said drowning was one of the worst ways to die. And I always wondered how they knew. Because how could they know if they had never died?" A morbid smile graces his face and he looks at me now. I can only see his eyes now, he's covered up most of his face with the parka and his words are muffled, though I can understand them. "I know. I'm probably the only person in the world who really knows what it feels like to drown."

"Is it?" I can't help but ask, even if I can tell the subject isn't what Kenny wants to discuss. "Is it the worst, I mean? Out of everything, is it really the worst way to go?"

"If there's one thing I know," he says, his voice still muffled, but even more so as he looks down at the ground again and sighs, "it's that the way you die doesn't effect how bad it is, not really. It's what you think about at the last moments, the events that contributed to the death. Dying in your sleep can be just as painful as being burned alive. I don't care how much pain you feel. Pain is temporary; it doesn't carry over into the afterlife. Memories and feelings do. And by that, yes, when I drowned, it was the worst way to die, Craig. Happy to hear it?"

"That's a stupid thing to ask," I say, narrowing my eyes.

Kenny just shrugs and removes the hood of his parka, shaking out his blond hair so it falls in his eyes ever so slightly again. I know what that means; he doesn't have to tell me. We aren't talking about death anymore. "In all seriousness Craig, I do need to talk to you about something. I need you to do something for me, but don't worry; I know you're a selfish douche, so this is going to help you too. At least, if it works out it will. I need you to really ask yourself something."

"What?" I say, slowly. My mind is racing, faster than fucking Red Racer could ever hope to go. What the hell does Kenny want me to ask myself and how is that supposed to help both of us? You know, an idea came to me the other day. I wonder if Kenny does things like this to save his soul in a way. Perhaps if he reaches a certain morality level he'll stop having such bad luck and when he does die, at some nice old age, he'll stay that way. Funny, isn't it, that Kenny would rather die and stay dead than have the chance to come back?

"Are you in love with Tweek?" he asks, blatantly stating what some obscure part of my mind has been wondering for a while now. "I don't mean do you love him either, because that's totally different. I want you to ask yourself, completely and honestly and you don't have to tell me because that's none of my business if you don't want it to be. But if you are, if you really know that you are, I think I might know what to do about it." Ah, and he must, because he's smiling even more now than he was at the idea of Clyde sucking his balls.

The photograph Stan gave me comes to mind. I remember that day vividly even though it feels like ages ago. Stan's birthday has a few memorable qualities that are good and some that are bad and some that are in-between. One of the bad ones is Tweek freaking out about the cake, a million dollars to anyone who can remember what he was so scared of. All I know is Cartman threw a part of the cake at Tweek. Why? Well, give me one thing that Cartman does with reasoning behind it and I'll give you ten things he's done simply for the hell of it.

I was more pissed off than I should have been, but Tweek looked ready to cry and had vanilla frosting all over his face and was having the spaz attack of the century. So everyone was preparing for me to flip Cartman off, maybe try to beat him up. Stan's mom was probably getting ready to suggest we all went home before I had the chance. But, and this is what Tweek does to me, I didn't do anything like that. Instead, I threw cake at someone else. Kyle, maybe, maybe not, but I'm the reason that the picture is basically of us all throwing cake at each other and acting like, well, eleven year olds. Stupid as the whole thing is, it reminds me, there is _nothing _I won't do for Tweek and I can only hope he shares that sentiment.

"Yeah," is all I can say, quietly, and Kenny, with a cry that would put our cheerleaders to shame, drags me back into the diner to join the rest of our friends. Everyone looks a bit shocked by the change in his attitude, but he starts off by explaining that he, Kenny McCormick, matchmaker extraordinaire, has the plan to end all plans and as he launches into what, exactly, we are all going to do, I kind of start to wish I would have lied and said that, no, I'm not in love with Tweek.

Oddly enough, though, this is the first time in years that telling the truth has given me the same euphoric feeling that's usually reserved for lies. I can't help but wonder why that is.

**A/N**: If you're wondering, Craig's birthday _is _very close to Christmas. Sort of a nod to my family. Two of my uncles and one of my cousins have birthdays on Christmas. It's not as fun as it sounds so I spared Craig from actually having his birthday on the holiday. And of course Kenny has a plan, he's Kenny. Now, the next chapter is the last one, with the fifteenth being an epilogue.  
Okay, because I know a few people are going to be upset about what happened with Kyle and Stan, get your knickers out of that twist and remember, the story isn't over. (:  
Until next time, tweekers


	14. It’s Not A Crime To Want Me Still

**Addict**

**A/N**: Not to be insensitive but…am I the only one who kind of laughed when they found out the hurricane names go 'Ike, Josephine, Kyle' this year? That's terrible of me isn't it? But still, what are the chances…Ike and Kyle? xD Oh I don't know, I'm absolutely the meanest person ever because I find that funny.  
Well, I was going to have this to you guys yesterday, but then I realized I didn't like the ending of this chapter so I messed around with it until I got it to the point where I was happy with it, finally, but, fuck, I hate this chapter. You'll probably hate it too. Ugh.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

**Chapter Fourteen**: It's Not A Crime To Want Me Still

When I was a kid Christmas was the most amazing time of the year. Somehow my family put aside everything. My dad was always home and my mom didn't touch alcohol. My sister and I didn't fight and all I ever wanted to do was open my presents and then play with whatever I got with my best friend – whoever that was at the time. My birthday was the same thing, and since my birthday is a mere four days before the Best Holiday Ever I got to experience the joy of waking up and knowing I was going to be getting free presents twice in a time span that was less than a week. Not to mention I've never had school on my birthday.

I wish someone would have told me, hey, that's going to change. Christmas is going to loose all meaning when you learn it's your parents putting the presents under the tree and you're going to start dreading your birthday at some point. Christmas lost meaning around the time I turned thirteen and I started dreading my birthday then too, in a time span that was less than a week. Not to sound melodramatic or anything, but that's what happened.

I don't know about anyone else who's turned eighteen, but when I open my eyes on December 21st, I instantly close them again and try to fall back asleep. Hopeless, really, is what that is, but I lay in bed for a good hour, buried under my blanket, pretending that I don't exist. Sometimes I think life would be a little bit easier if I just didn't exist – for everyone. I wonder how different things would be without me. Funnily enough I don't think anything would be affected all too drastically.

Anyway, it's about eleven in the morning on my birthday and at eleven in the morning my dad will be in his office. Office for what, I often ask myself, but I never ask him and I've never been in the room, I just know that he's in it all the time. Most of the time I stay clear of his office. It's not hard, the office is all the way in the back of my house and I don't make a habit of going there unless I'm stealing cigarettes or money from my mom. Too bad Kenny's plan calls for me to talk to my dad and this is one of the few chances I'm going to have to do so.

Step One (As According To Kenny): Get The House For The Party, Don't Mention Alcohol Until Your Parents Do.

"Dad?" I knock on the door lightly and it swings open easily. My father looks up at me in surprise, but nods me in. "What are you…doing?"

"Work for my job," he says, like that should be really obvious. I stare at him for a long, long time and he stares back. "I'm an architect, Craig, remember?" No, as a matter of fact, I want to say, I don't think you even ever _told _me that was your job. My dad is fucking Mike Brady, only we aren't too much like the Brady Bunch. God how I hate the 70s. I just shake my head. "Jesus, Craig," he says, flipping me off, "why do you think I'm gone all the time? I have to oversee the casinos we're building in Atlantic City and Las Vegas. You have noticed that I've been gone right?"

"Thomas don't be rude to your son!" my mom calls as she walks past the door to the office, apparently on the way to her bedroom.

"Yeah, don't be rude to me," I echo, flipping him off. He just flips me off again and goes back to his work, which, I guess, must consist of drawing and measuring and all that sort of shit. Weird though, out of everything he could have been, my dad is an architect. I think I liked it better when I was in the dark, when he was a mysterious gambler who was just saving us from the grisly details, instead of flying out to see how the structural integrity of some shoddy casino is doing. "Uh, hey, dad?"

Because I have reverted back to my 'This is normal, we talk like this all the time!' voice my father looks up at me, sighs, and drops his pencil, leans back in his chair and says, "Shoot." I bet that's what he would say if he was sentenced to death. You know, if they still did that whole firing squad thing. My dad would just flip them off and say that one word. Admittedly, there is a chance he isn't as big of a dick as I think he is, but honestly that's just the mindset I put myself in so that my request comes out as sweet and loving and innocently hopeful.

"Well it's my birthday today," I say. Score one for the team, because my father goes pale and looks to the left and totally lets me know that my eighteenth birthday was not on his list of things to remember. Tragic, really, that's what the cat calendar is for, isn't it? "But since Tweek isn't here and all, my best friend, you know him right?" Two points, he nods but he has no idea what the hell a 'Tweek' is much less how I can be best friends with it. "Anyway, he's getting back the day after Christmas, so I was wondering if it wouldn't be possible for me to have a party then."

"A party," he says, slowly. He evaluates in his head, I can see him thinking. Alright, he basically forgot his only son's birthday. I'm rambling on about some Tweek thing that's my best friend and – might I add – sounding very distressed that it…he, whatever Tweek is, is not going to be here for my actual birthday. Which, once again, he has essentially forgotten about. So far he's not doing all that well and there's only one thing that can save him. "Yeah, sure kid, there's just one problem."

_Please don't tell me I need to be chaperoned, please don't tell me I need to be chaperoned, please don't tell me I need to be chaperoned_, is what my mind is screaming. I force a smile. "What's the problem?" is what I say out loud, the strain in my voice nearly rivaling the constant one in Tweek's.

"We're not going to be here," he says.

There have been several times in my life where people have grossly misunderstood what something they have said to me means. Clyde once told me he wanted to make movies when he got older. He meant movies, but I thought about what movies Clyde liked to watch and came to the conclusion that he meant adult movies, if you will. But this, what my dad just said, tops everything. There has never been a bigger misconception in my history of conversations.

"Well darn," I say in response, my voice monotone. In reality I have never been happier. Kenny told me I had to make sure they weren't here. And that's not even part of the plan, that's just because the alcohol tolerance levels of our classmates are dismally low and there's no way I would ever get away with having the party if my parents were home. Stan would end up puking at the foot of their bed or something. It would be a disaster, but it won't be because my father has just grossly misunderstood what the words 'We're not going to be here' do to me.

"You do realize what that means though, correct?" I blink. I don't know realize what this means, apparently, any more than I knew what my father did for a living. "If I hear anything from any of the neighbors about how anyone in this house was out of control you're going to wish you hadn't even asked me to have the damn thing." I leave his office and vow to never return to that room ever again, but, in all truth, I have never had a more family-like moment than that one.

My birthday is, well, uneventful. My mom asks me what I want for dinner but I just kind of shrug and tell her it doesn't matter. In the end I hang out with Clyde and we eat tacos, because they're his favorite and I haven't done anything with just Clyde in what feels like forever. My parents get me the complete DVD set of Red Racer – which is a really fancy way of buying me something I already have, but with added special features and other things I don't care much about. Clyde and I watch it in Japanese and try to figure out what exactly they're saying.

I missed stuff like this, I realize as Clyde and I walk up to the drugstore to buy loads of cheap food. Just hanging out with someone, no strings attached, hiding nothing at all. Turning eighteen isn't too bad, either, as decided by Clyde as I unflinchingly buy him this month's Playboy, as thanks for making the day a little less horrible than I thought it was going to be. Of course, I make him promise that he saves it until he gets home; I am not having him jack off in my room again. Yes, again.

He thinks it's funny that I have the picture from Stan's birthday under my pillow. "It's kind of like in ninth grade when Kyle told us if we put our Biology books under our pillows we'd know what mitochondria were," Clyde says while he looks at the picture probably remembering the things that stick out to him the most from that day. He's right, it is kind of like that stupid joke Kyle played on us in ninth grade, only I'm hoping that, somehow, the knowledge of how exactly things went from A to B, from sixth grade when I vowed never to talk to Tweek again to this moment, right now, when all I want is to talk to him.

Tweek calls me at ten our time, nine his time, in the evening. By that point Clyde is at his house spending time with the Playmate of the Month and my family is scattered around the house doing what we do best – ignoring one another in favor of things we really like, such as television and root canals. Perhaps this is why every member of my family stares at me as I walk through the house, talking on the phone animatedly. I don't let Tweek talk very much, I'll admit, but I can't shut up.

"So Kenny suggested that, y'know, I have the party when you get back, isn't that great?" I say, walking directly in front of the television while my sister watches some crap show about a teenage singing sensation who somehow doesn't manage to get recognized at school even though her only form of disguise is a wig. Millie flips me off, I do the same without skipping a beat or letting Tweek respond. "And it's like, not going to suck balls either, since I'm eighteen and all and my parents won't be home and I don't even know who the hell is coming."

"Wh-what if – gah – what if people you _hate _come to the party though?" Tweek cries, like that should really, honestly and completely be my biggest fear.

"You're going to be there so it doesn't matter," I explain flippantly as I walk into the kitchen. "Mom its Tweek, say hi to Tweek." There's a distant 'Ack, Craig!' from Tweek as I push my cell phone towards my mother who says a half-hearted greeting as she looks at me like I'm crazy. "That was my mom," I tell Tweek happily. "She misses you." But I miss you a lot more. "Oh, Jesus, Tweek, guess what?"

"I don't – guess?!" he says, his voice shrill. "There are a million things in the world you could be talking about. Do you even _know _how much pressure this is? Gah! Just t-tell me!"

"Well…I don't know actually," I admit. "I just like talking to you."

Have I ever been happier to hear Tweek's exhausted, but genuine, laugh?

I doubt it.

* * *

Step Two: After A Few Days Of Preparation There Is Nothing More Important Than Preparing The Alcohol

"You have your driver's license?"

"Yes, for the millionth time."

"I'm just making sure, because it would really suck if you got in there and realized you left it in your other…do you have any other pairs of jeans?"

"You know, I really have no idea." I don't, actually, know about the status of my clothing collection. There is a high possibility that I have several pairs of jeans and an even higher possibility that I think I only have one pair when I have a few that just so happen to all look exactly alike. I am not a clothes person, or a clean person or anything in-between. Kenny isn't either, he wears the same bright orange parka every single day and I never expect anything different.

Butters, on the other hand, is very much a clothes person. Now, I knew Butters was gay in fourth grade when he was playing Hello Kitty Island Adventure and the rest of us were playing football outside. There's never been a doubt in my mind. He's the stuff gay stereotypes are made of, positive and negative. Simply put he's one of the nicest people I've ever met, but at the same time he's irritably naïve and just too cutesy. And he dresses really nice.

"What are we buyin', fellas?" he asks us, all upbeat and smiling and smoothing out the wrinkles of his sky blue sweater. Kenny sighs, like, goodness, isn't that just the dreamiest, most adorable thing you have _ever _heard? No, really, it's not, but that's alright, Kenny can be wrong about what the most adorable thing ever is and I'm fine and dandy with being right, because of course the answer is Tweek.

I have found that there is a side-affect to no having Tweek around: becoming a bit of a gaywad.

It's the day after Christmas and Butters' obviously had a good one. As far as his parents know he isn't hanging out with Kenny, he's hanging out with 'Eric' and 'Eric' is just a darling in front of anyone over the age of really-fucking-oblivious, which just so happens to be all of the adults in South Park. 'Eric,' who is Cartman in disguise, helps Butters get out of the house and then, dejectedly, goes back home. I can't imagine what it's like to have Butters, who never ditches anyone, well, ditch you for Kenny. But I guess Cartman is used to it and, truthfully, I don't give a fuck about his feelings, so it's not my problem.

Christmas, though, was not quite the phenomenon you might expect. We actually all ended up hanging out at Token's house, playing video games and watching movies where people were killed in ways you never even knew were possible. It was nice, but it was devoid of everything I really care about. My sister and I both got fifty dollars, I mean, that's nice and all, but it just kind of shows you how little my family cares about the holiday now that there's no mystery to it.

Kenny's poor and, I hate to say it, that automatically means Christmas sucks balls for him. He didn't even get fifty dollars. My best guess is that he got some rat poison for his room or something. Butters got a sweater, one that he is evidently proud of, and money, not a lot of money, but money that he was willing to give up so I don't even have to pay for beer I'm not going to drink. Which is what we're doing right now, walking up to the drugstore to buy cheap ass beer with my newly legal-status. There's a certain excitement in that situation, having the power to legally buy alcohol, and at the moment I'm relishing it.

"Stuff to drink," Kenny says to the blond, while I nod and wave my driver's license in the air. "Oh, sweet you – your picture is shit." I quickly return the identification card to the pocket of what may very well be my only pair of jeans and glare at him, flipping him off as he just grins benignly. "Well you _do, _at least in that picture. Not that most people's driver's license picture looks all that great, besides me of course." He puts a hand to his heart when he says this and I inwardly groan. Of course Kenny looks great, has he ever looked bad? Douche bag.

"Good luck!" Butters says when we reach the drug store, even though he has no idea why I would need luck to buy 'stuff to drink.' Kenny smiles at me like he couldn't care less if I was eaten by a polar bear, which I take as a cue to leave him alone with Butters and go on my Alcoholic Expedition. That's all I'm doing really. Kenny's invited people and explicitly told them all that if they want to get drunk chances are they'll have to have their own means of doing so. I'm just buying a case of beer to feel cool and manly.

The guy at the counter is a lot more interested in the same magazine I bought Clyde a few days ago and all he says when I bring the beer up to the counter is, "S'that all kid?" I nod and he rings it up. Him calling me 'kid,' made me think of my dad and, consequently, my whole family. They are all, as of six this morning, gone, gone and even more gone, driving to Utah to see relatives that I could care less about. They're better off without me there, last time I saw them I punched one of my cousins – my cousin Lily, to be exact.

I'm not upset that my family is in another state while I'm stuck at home, you know, having a party. But still, when he calls me 'kid' I kind of freeze and start to think about how much I hate Salt Lake City and Mormons and people named Lily. And because of that I take a good twenty seconds more to get out of the drug store. And because I take those twenty seconds more in the drug store until the guy at the counter clears his throat – because of those seconds, I miss something.

It's obvious something happened because Kenny just looks oh-so pleased with himself in that smug way that means he got something he wanted and Butters looks like he's conflicted between happiness and confusion.

"I'm not even going to ask," I say. And something about the look on Kenny's face tells me I wouldn't get an answer anyway.

* * *

Step Three: Reunion AKA Where Things Either Fall Together Or Fall Apart

It's a discerning thing to not know who half of the people in your house are. It's an even more discerning thing to have all of those people intoxicated in some way. But even worse than that? Even worse than two seniors breaking my mom's glass coffee table? Even worse than the very visible stain in the corner of my living room where someone spilt half a bottle of red wine that came from God knows where? What could possibly be worse than your house being trashed and the imminent punishment you are sure to get from your asshole father?

Tweek isn't here. And you know, number one, that's the whole point of the party. I'm not having it to celebrate being eighteen or to appeal to the student body as someone who throws reckless parties. I'm having this stupid fucking faggot-infested party to tell Tweek how I really feel and then to see what we're going to do about it. I think that's the genius of Kenny's plan, it has nothing to do with getting Tweek and I together, it has to do with us being honest with each other.

I think he's learning from what he's done wrong in the past. At least, that's what I get from it. In the past he's been too involved, what he's doing now is guiding but not much else. Learning from past mistakes, I guess. I need to take a page from his book, and I don't mean the one he's reading right now.

Currently Kenny is more drunk than I've ever seen him. Well, except for that time he died from alcohol poisoning in sixth grade when the older kids dared him to do it for ten dollars. He's sitting with Butters – big surprise there – and I can't hear his voice over the music that someone brought over, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's slurring out those three magic words over and over again while he leans against the other blond and traces little patterns in the air.

I would be jealous if I wasn't a tiny bit happy for him. The thing about Butters, though, is that he probably doesn't understand in the slightest just how much Kenny means what he says and Kenny won't elaborate on it when he's sober. But for right now, they're sitting on the floor of my living room in a world of their own. People around them are in far more sexually stimulating situations, dancing, touching, making out, eating, but Butters and Kenny?

They don't need that, they just are. And I would be jealous, but – it gets to a point, I guess, where you've watched someone want something for a long time and you can't be jealous because, hell, they _deserve _it. It makes me question that fact. Do I deserve Tweek? If, after all this time, he still doesn't want me, I suppose that I don't. I'm not going to fight with him about it, at all, if, once and for all, he wants nothing to do with me apart from being my friend.

Of course I'll be upset, but by now I've conditioned myself for a negative reaction.

Which is what Kyle has been getting from all of us for a while now. I find the redhead sitting in front of the door to the bathroom, rubbing at his temples and muttering something. I would be surprised if he was drunk, but I wouldn't doubt that he's had a beer or two. Most people I know drink for the hell of it, every time Kyle drinks it's because he's taking the edge off of something. And I'm sure he needs a lot of edge off because no one has been giving him any less than a really fucking hard time.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, sitting down next to him. I have nothing better to do, really. Everyone else is either drunk or better off being drunk and I don't feel like dealing with any of them. Besides that, I want to know what's been going on in the world of complicated French-Jewish-Whatever The Fuck Stan Is Love Triangles. Anything to distract myself from the fact that Tweek isn't here, too, I don't want to even think about what he's doing that means he's not here.

"Waiting for Stan," Kyle replies morosely, pointing to the bathroom door. "He's fucking hammered, I hate seeing him like that." But Kyle doesn't say he '_hates_' to see Stan like that. He just hates it, I can tell, because we all know how Stan is when drunk. He's uninhibited and whiny and won't stop crying. And, this is more than likely why he's in the bathroom; he tends to puke a lot. Kyle will look after Stan while he's drunk, because Kyle doesn't '_hate_' it like the rest of us do, it hurts him and he hates it. Because Kyle can't stand things that hurt him.

Irony; it's proudly on display all over South Park, get some today.

"What's going on with you guys?" I ask, flipping off a girl and a guy who stumble over me on their way to my parents' room. I don't stop them though, I don't care about what they're going to do or where. My family won't be back until the twenty-ninth and part of the plan is for everyone to help clean up. Sans Cartman, probably, but I don't think any of us even want him around, so too fucking bad on his part. I'll just tell Butters to clean up in there, he won't even know what he's touching.

Kyle moans and buries his face in his hands, mumbling something that I don't understand before he actually chooses to talk to me. "I don't even know right now, it's so fucked up. He's been sobbing to me ever since about ten, telling me how we'll never stop being best friends and he doesn't care who I'm with as long as I know he loves me and all this shit that's just – it makes me feel _terrible _you know? The only way I can get him to be quiet is to talk in Hebrew, because he's always liked that."

"He likes when you talk in Hebrew?" I ask skeptically. Because whenever I've heard Kyle talk in Hebrew it sounds like he's a few seconds away from spitting something particularly nasty at someone.

"Yes, Craig, he does," Kyle snaps. "Fuck, sorry, I'm just so – I know you probably don't care. But everyone seems so angry at me right now, even Christophe. He's been pushing me to hang out with Stan more. Not that I wouldn't do it anyway, but he did this last time too." Before he broke up with you, I want to say. But the Jew looks depressed enough, so I don't say anything. "And it's not that I don't want to be around Stan or that I don't want him happy it's just that I end up sacrificing my own happiness for his."

"No offense, Kyle," I say, playing with the torn hem of my jeans, staring at the material that was once one solid piece of fabric, but that was worn apart over time until it was so weak that it simply tore apart, "but isn't that what love is? Whether you want to actually be with Stan or not, you obviously love him as a best friend at least. And at some point you have to admit to yourself that that matters just as much, if not even more, as what you feel for 'Tophe."

"Craig – you don't really know anything about relationships. You know that, right?" Kyle offers with a sigh.

"And you know more than I do?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at that statement. "Last time I checked I wasn't the one who couldn't decide who he wanted to fuck."

"You don't even realize it, do you?" Kyle asks after a few seconds, turning to look at me in the most uncomfortable way I can imagine. It's worse than when Christophe sees right through me, worse than Tweek looking at me with lifeless eyes. Kyle looks at me like I'm some pathetic person, but it's not even just that. When he looks at me he makes me realize I _am_pathetic. "This is why Tweek doesn't want to get any closer to you. You're an asshole, Craig, maybe not to Tweek, but you can't just choose one person to be nice to and get away with it. He's not going to love you for choosing him to be that person; he's going to end up hating you for it."

It's at that point, when I'm staring at Kyle – who has just done to me what I've done to him numerous times in the past few months, pointing out something I've never even really given thought to – that the door to the bathroom opens up and Stan, complete with bloodshot, tired eyes, emerges, opening his mouth to say something to Kyle and then stopping when he sees me. But that's alright, because I just stand up and leave them alone. For all I care they can go join the nameless boy and girl in my parents' room. For all I care everyone currently in my house can do the same.

All I can hear is the bass in the music from the living room while I head for the kitchen – the underlying beats matching up with my heartbeat. Or maybe I'm just imagining things. In all honesty I think I'm trying to find Clyde or Token, but Clyde is asleep at the kitchen table and Token is nowhere to be found. Kenny is also asleep, still leaning against Butters in the living room, their fingers laced together secretly, I'm sure. I go to my room and Stan and Kyle aren't in the hallway or near the bathroom as far as I can tell. Luckily no one has decided to use my room to enrich their sex life and I'm able to grab my jacket without much interference.

Except for the fact that, well, I'm trying not to cry the entire time.

It's stupid and it's true – I am pathetic. Who gives a fuck what Kyle Broflovski thinks about me, right? Wrong. For whatever reason it made me feel like shit to hear his assessment. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he said Tweek is going to hate me. Because, and I'm going to be completely honest with myself here, I would hate myself if I was him. Kyle is right about one thing. The fact that I'm pretty much an uncaring jerk to everyone but Tweek isn't helping me any. It's not going to make him feel special or wonderful or at all like a unique snowflake. All it's going to do is make him hate me when he finally sees who I really am.

But who am I, really? I think I'm lost and maybe I'm not anyone at all. I know I'm not him; I'm not the guy who acts like an arrogant dickhead to everyone. I'm not really as angry as I would like people to think I am. I'm not that person and I never wanted to be him, but, right now, that's where I stand. That's the person I've been, ever since – forever. Since as long as I can remember and it's never really felt right. But you know, I can't go back and change it now.

Somehow, though, it's like I think I can. I walk outside and know immediately that my parents have probably been getting calls all night. You can hear the music even when I'm halfway down the street. Someone will eventually call the cops on us and if the police aren't too busy looking at porn or rich black guys they might even come out and do something about it. It's not my problem at this point. There's one thing on my mind and that's going back to when I didn't have these problems.

I end up at the elementary school playground.

Subconsciously it might be that cry for childhood again, but I think it's something more than that. Everything when I was seven, eight, nine, all of that made me who I am right now. Whether I like it or not everything stems from the time I spent playing football and spacemen and trying to stay away from girls up until the point that I actually tried to be around girls. It all happened here, surrounded by the same people who are at my house, drunk and emotional, right now. It's weird, because right now I'm legally an adult, and I feel more at home when I sit on one of the swings than I do at a party with alcohol and blatant sexuality.

The playground is timeless in two ways. First, it looks the same as it always did. Maybe the paint is a little more faded and maybe everything is starting to rust a little, but if you squint it's the mirror image of the place I spent a lot of my time while I was growing up. I remember fighting with Tweek near the slide – which, incidentally, had to be replaced – and talking about how gross all the girls were by the back wall, when really I don't think I've ever liked girls any more than I did in fifth grade. I think things always stay the same, everything is confusing in a different way, no matter how old you are, you never figure anything out. All that ever happens is you begin to see the different sides of things and then you don't understand that. Life is pretty fucked up, not because it's unfair or difficult, but because nothing ever really makes sense.

But it's timeless in another way too. By the time I left the party it was a little after midnight and I know I sit there on the swing for quite some time. But, regardless of that, it feels like no time passes at all in-between when I get there and when Tweek does. We stare at each other for the longest time and for a few seconds I think I'm simply imagining things. In the moonlight he looks really pale, like a ghost, like if I went to touch him I wouldn't be able to and he would disappear – again. I never want Tweek to disappear.

"Do you hate me?" I whisper, quietly, because it's all I can think to say.

"Oh God," is all Tweek says for a minute, shuddering violently, his eyes closing tight. He's only standing a few feet from me, but he might as well be in Seattle still.

"Is that why you didn't come?" I continue, my voice still barely audible as I stare down at the ground. "Did you decide I'm not worth it? Because, Tweek, I wouldn't blame you if you did. If you hated me, I would understand. I just – I don't think you even know how hard it is to do this, Tweek. To have you stand right there and be a million miles away. I'm not – I'm not asking you to love me, just please don't hate me, Tweek, I don't know what I would do if you hated me."

I'm gripping the chains of the swing tight in my hands, not looking at the blond standing in front of me as I speak. My hands are going to be imprinted with their pattern for a while – my mind is going to be imprinted with these memories forever. The weird thing is I always thought it would be me, if anything. Tweek has never been the one to take initiative. He's too busy worrying about what the result of his actions is going to be. But maybe that's exactly it. He knows what my reaction is going to be and he's decided it's a good thing.

I don't know it's going to happen, I'm not prepared, I'm not looking at him, but it's hard to miss him grabbing my shoulders and pulling me close so he can place his lips on mine. It's awkward and clumsy and I'm quite sure it's the best moment of my life. It's quick and over in less than a few seconds and after we part Tweek kind of whimpers and buries his head in my shoulder, saying a few words that mean more to me than anyone can ever imagine.

"I could _never _hate you," he says, so softly and slowly that I know he's trying hard to keep his voice in check.

"Oh, good," I answer, breathlessly, the only words that come to mind besides 'holy shit' and 'what just happened,' the only word I can verbally say, the only words I can get out before I do actually start crying. I'm not sobbing or weeping or anything, just silently adding a few more faggot points to my already stunning reputation. A reputation that I think has been set into everyone's mind by this point, that kid who's a total douche and also happens to like his best friend, but doesn't have a chance in hell.

I think I might just have a chance in South Park though.

"Did you have fun in Seattle?" I finally ask him, trying in vain to wipe away a few recluse tears and blinking away any more that might decide to make me look even worse than I already do.

He looks up at me, his eyes full of surprise and he cries, in that alluring Tweek-way of his, "Who _cares_?!" His hands are still gripping onto my shoulders and his fingernails might or might not be digging into my skin, I don't care to notice, I just kiss him again, because at this point I figure I can. And if I can do something, sure as hell I'm going to do it. "Jesus Christ," he mutters as he leans away slightly. "I m-missed you a lot, Craig, I really – ngh – I _really _did."

"Yeah?" I say, standing up and kind of falling forward so I'm holding him. He shakes and so do I, a little bit. "It was weird without you, everything was. It all just went by in this big blur." I smooth down a bit of his uncontrollable golden hair, perfect in every way that it's not. "And Kenny had this stupid plan, but you never showed up at the party and I thought you hated me or something." But, God, am I the luckiest person in the entire world? Because if there's one person in the world who doesn't hate me at this moment, it's Tweek Tweak.

"My flight got delayed," he explains, his voice quickening as he begins to ramble. "There was really bad weather and they said they couldn't fly the plane and I was kind of – gah – a little happy, a little, because what if the plane had crashed and I had died and then you would have been alone!" For once I agree with one of his worries, that certainly would be a travesty and isn't entirely impossible. "But I tried to call you a million times and you never answered and then I thought that maybe you were playing with fireworks and you blew your hands off and you couldn't answer the phone!"

"Why would I have fireworks in the middle of the winter?" I ask, moving away slightly so I can look at him, but staying close enough so that I still have him right there.

"I d-don't know, it just, _God_, it sounds like something you would do, Craig!" he cries, twitching under my gaze and trying to escape it like, after all this time, I'm going to let him go and say 'Well I didn't you were _that _messed up, never mind then.' And, as far as Tweek knows, I might do that. I would certainly do it to someone else, but Tweek is a different story entirely. Tweek is Tweek and there is nothing about him that I don't like, because everything about him is undeniably _him_ and that is, in my opinion, what makes him flawless.

"It does, doesn't it?" I admit, because, you know, it kind of does.

"You're always doing things w-without thinking," he adds, almost kind of pushing me away and for a second I think that's it and this was all just some weird dream I'm having and I'm going to wake up and realize none of this ever happened and I have to walk to school because the power went out and my alarm clock never went off. I could do things differently and never fuck up anything, if I could go all the way back. I would tell Kyle to never get together with Stan and to just let Christophe be – that things will fix themselves in the end. I'd let Kenny know he needs to stop trying so hard, that sometimes we all have to do things on our own, he can't help everyone. I would tell Tweek I love him and that it doesn't matter if nothing comes out of it, but that I would give anything to be where we are right now.

"I think about things a lot more than you would expect," I tell him with a small smile. He takes his hand in mine and I take his and just like that he and I are one. We walk towards the edge of the playground, where the snow is mixing in with the dirt and grime of the road, where no cars pass because right now we are the only two people in the world, where things transcend from childhood to being an adult. And I won't say things change completely when we take those steps, but I turn to Tweek and stop us before we leave the playground and ask him, "How did you know I was here?"

"I just…_knew_," he answers after a moment and then we leave without another word because nothing else needs to be said. That's it. Everything can be summed up in one small statement, like most things in life. We seek to make everything so much more complicated than it actually is. When really, that's all it ever has been between Tweek and I. Who knows how long it all stems back, who can say when it really all started and who could ever decide when it ends? Maybe I don't know any of that and maybe there will be no good answer when someone asks us how we got together. Maybe a year from now we'll hate each other or maybe five years from now we'll just be best friends again. But, I don't think so, I think – no, I know this is going to last, I have no doubt in that fact. And, how, I know someone will ask, do I know that?

Honestly, I think that's best answered with three simple words – I just _know_.

**A/N**: JESUS CHRIST YOU GUYS ARE SO AMAZING. Seriously, it took me a while to put this up just because I don't want it to end. The epilogue (which really isn't much besides a who's with who/Craig's melodramatic thoughts) should be up in a day or two. But yeah, if I could, I would just hug all of you. I mean, I don't want to sound like a queer or nothin', but I think I'm going to cry when this over.  
Tell me what you thought of this chapter; I really, really want to know, because I redid the entire ending because it used to be even more overdramatic and terrible than how overdramatic and terrible it is now.  
And yeah, no one said the three magic words and no one made out and everyone was probably hoping one of the two would happen, but yeah. No. Sorry.  
:D  
Until next time (aka, the last time), tweekers


	15. Epilogue

**Addict**

**A/N**: I've got a lot more to say at the bottom (seriously, a _lot _more because I'm really annoying with author's notes like that, you know). But, you should know, if you're fine with what happened in the last chapter and having _everyone _as how they were there…let me put it this way: some of you aren't going to like this epilogue because of what happens to some people. And, also, this is short, way shorter than the regular chapters, hence, why it is the epilogue, right? That being said, _yes _this epilogue is important, and you _should _read it…now.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

**Epilogue**

**"**What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.**"  
**--_Choke _by **Chuck Palahniuk**

Tweek's heartbeat, I have come to know, is not any faster than a normal person's. That isn't to say that Tweek is completely normal or that his heartbeat isn't important. I think there is a lot to be said for someone's heartbeat. No one's sounds the same, if you consider that no one listens the same. I think that, out of everything that I've ever learned, the fact that love is based on listening as much as it is on talking, is the most important thing and that while that sounds pretty cliché it tends to hold true in almost every situation. I think that without knowing that you can't really love someone.

A lot of the time Tweek and I don't even talk. It isn't that we have nothing to say, but it is that we don't want to say anything. We don't have to talk or do anything at all when we're together. I don't have to smoke or lie or flip anyone off and he doesn't have to drink coffee. We just have to listen. Tweek listens to me breathing and I listen to his heartbeat and that's enough. I used to think that Tweek's heartbeat was like a hummingbird, shaky and flitting from place to place on the smallest whim, but now I know I'm wrong.

I don't mean to sound gay or anything – I do, but I don't mean to – but, I'm pretty sure that's life. Having someone who's heartbeat you have memorized. Tweek's heartbeat might as well be mine, I think about it so much. I think about it when I'm smoking with Christophe. I think about it when Kenny tries to tell me that, no, I can't be around Tweek all the time and never get sick of the blond. I think about it when I tell Kenny he's wrong. I think about it when Tweek is right next to me and when he's not. Tweek's heartbeat is my main addiction, above everything else. As long as I know his heart is beating, I'm alright.

He's shakier than ever. I don't think any of us have ever seen Tweek as he is these days. But it's not from his worries or his paranoia; he's Kenny on speed now. He's so happy that everything he does is energized. He's a hummingbird alright, and he's content to flit from place to place as long as I'm with him. Tweek is a little ball of blond energy that freaks out about every little thing, especially when we aren't holding hands. I'm still the only one who can calm him down, but there's less to calm him down about now that things are – well, not that we're us.

And, really, I think everyone can agree that things are better this way.

"Craig, truth or dare?" Cartman asks, through gritted teeth. Except maybe Cartman.

"We're not playing truth or dare, fatass," Kyle reminds him from the couch. "No one besides you wants to play it and, anyway, you just want to play it so you can embarrass someone or make out with Wendy in the closet." Everyone else mutters in agreement, even Wendy who doesn't look as mortified of the idea as she probably should. Although that, more than likely, has something to do with the sheer amount of alcohol she had to drink while playing Have You Ever. It was a bit funny to see both Kyle and Wendy drink when 'have you ever made out with Stan' came up.

We've been fighting about this for a while now. By 'we' I mean Cartman and Kyle. I don't think any of us would mind having to play the game very much, but no one wants to get in the middle of their fight, so all of us are just watching, amused. Cartman calls Kyle a Jew rat and Kyle calls Cartman fatass. I mean, pointing out the obvious just isn't going to cut it anymore. With anyone other than Kyle, at least, because the redhead still gets angry when he hears insults I'm sure he's heard a million times. The rest of us find them easy to ignore, but that's probably because they aren't directed towards us. I flip Cartman off, regardless, and he sees me.

"Ay! What was that for, fag boy?" he cries at me.

"Shut up, you fat fuck," I throw back at him. "You're just upset because you don't have anyone." Everyone who is currently single glares at me and everyone who is currently dating someone nods in agreement. Kyle looks torn between the two. "Jesus, hanging out with you people is like hanging out with first graders," I let them know as Bebe suggests Spin the Bottle. I don't know why, first off, I'm with this group, which consists of Kyle, Cartman, Wendy, Bebe, Christophe, Clyde, Token and Rebecca. And, second, I know why I'm not with Tweek, but I don't like it.

"Can't stand them?" Kenny asks as I approach the stairs. I hadn't noticed him at first. He's sitting with Butters, who's actually asleep on the floor next to him. Kenny has a red plastic cup in his hands that I'm sure is full of whatever cheap beer Stan bought. I didn't drink any. Alcohol has just never had much appeal to me, mostly because I act like a retarded pussy when drunk, and, besides, I have enough vices as it is. I shrug and Kenny downs the rest of whatever is in the cup then smiles up at me. "Now _I _can probably stand them."

I glance back at the group that's sitting at the other end of Stan's basement. Kyle is saying something about how he and Christophe aren't dating.

"Oui," Christophe says with a nod, "dating iz for faggots." And then Kyle lays back down, his head in Christophe's lap, while the French boy plays with his red hair.

"Maybe I need some more alcohol," Kenny says, looking at the empty cup. "Hey, Butters?" The blond boy, who I had thought was asleep, opens his eyes slightly and Kenny runs a hand through his blond hair. His hair isn't golden, like Tweek's is, I notice with a hint of satisfaction. "I'm going to go upstairs with Craig and get some more – something to drink. You alright to wait for me for a little bit?" There's concern in his voice that he doesn't have for anyone else. If Butters asked him to stay, Kenny would stay.

"N-no, it's alright, Kenny," Butters says with a small yawn. "I'll wait for ya."

"Don't say anything, Craig," Kenny warns me as we walk up the stairs.

"Wasn't going to," I reply with a smile, even though we both know that's a lie. A particularly good one, too, except for the fact that Kenny doesn't believe it. Most people don't believe my lies anymore, but I don't have any reason to tell them at this point. Everything is good enough. The truth gives me as much euphoria as lies used to. If I made New Year's resolutions mine would probably have been to stop lying. It's the least I can do, I think. Quit one addiction to accept another. "So you and Butters," I say, anyway, even though I know Kenny doesn't want to talk about that.

"Don't ask," Kenny says, leading the way into Stan's living room as he sighs. "You just saw what's going on. I think he's too naïve to realize anything at this point and I can't really say that bothers me. It's actually rather adorable that he thinks it's all innocent and I'm sure he'll figure it out someday, but for right now, I'm good with what we have, even if it's not exactly how I want thing to be." We're about to enter the kitchen when Kenny turns towards me abruptly and draws a hand across his neck.

Recently this has become sign language for: 'Stan is here, don't talk about anything having to do with redheaded Jews or chain smoking French boys or any sort of romantic feelings.' I tend to ignore this motion and pretend I don't see it, because I could honestly care less what anyone feels should or shouldn't be said around Stan. People think too much about what to say around others, I think. Especially Stan, who needs to hear things whether he wants to or not. He can't just pretend that Kyle and Christophe don't exist. I know he wants to, hell, I would want to if I was him. But I know enough now. Pretending doesn't work.

"Hey, Stan," I say, cheerfully, like he isn't standing in front of the freezer. He looks like he's going to stand there for the few million years I'm sure it would take for him to freeze to death. "Kyle isn't in there. If you're looking for him, he's downstairs." Kenny nearly punches me in the stomach but seeing as I'm rather graceful and he's rather drunk he totally misses. I'm on my way to the kitchen table where someone, probably a girl, has apparently brought food to the party. I don't know what the things on the plate are, they look like one of those recipes you can only find by watching the Food Network at one in the morning, but, fuck, they taste pretty good.

"Oh!" Kenny snaps his fingers. "I've got a good – okay, listen to this Stan." The blond reaches over and closes the freezer door. Stan looks at him and I eat another one of the delicious mystery things. God, they're almost better than sex. Emphasis on almost. "Craig, who's your best friend?"

"What are you, re – oh." Turns out that Kenny _isn't _retarded – he's trying to make a point. "Well, Tweek, of course."

"Right, right, and who's your boyfriend?"

"Tweek." Only it comes out more like 'Twemphg' because I'm stuffing my face a bit more with those – the really, really good tasting things. I'm going to have to tell Christophe about them, it turns out he's good at cooking. Despite what he says he's such a faggot at times. He and Kyle might not be dating or even doing anything at all romantically, but he's been in that sort of a mood permanently. Oh, yes, he's a cynical bastard, but he can make one hell of a cake. It's good cake too, not that stuff you buy in the box, it's _real _cake.

"See, no reason you two can't be best friends and date, Stan," Kenny says, making his point crystal clear.

"Oh my God you guys are we actually having this conversation _again_?" I whine, although I doubt it makes much sense when you consider I'm eating. Still. But I have good reason, I haven't eaten since this morning when my mom made breakfast, and by that I mean she put a box of cereal on the counter before she left to take my sister to dance class. My dad is in Orlando and I like to imagine he's in Disney World having an affair with the lady who dresses up as Cinderella. Fuck, that's romantic; I hope somehow Cinderella becomes my new mom.

"Again," Kenny agrees. "We've only had it about a million times. Everyone's sick of it, you know that, right, Stan?" There's an important thing to mention here and it is that Kenny will never, ever say Kyle's name in front of Stan. He hasn't since the party and probably won't ever do it until Stan either gets together with Kyle or gets the fuck over him. Because Kyle Broflovski, you see, really isn't dating anyone. He's chosen to take whatever road it is that means you don't choose between the two things you can't choose between.

And, you know, there are a few things I could say about that. Like stupid and cowardly and not like Kyle at all. But he's going to make the choice eventually. For right now he's best friends with Stan again and maybe it's not exactly same, maybe there's this weird feeling between them. I don't know, I'm not them. But they're fine, really, even if Stan looks a little hurt every time he sees the redhead with the French boy. And how to describe _those _two? Well, they're not so much friends as they are broken pieces of a mirror, looking into it and seeing what they used to be. What they aren't any more, but I don't think they know what to be now and the jury's out on that decision. They're in this weird position because they never really were friends, they've always been something more than that and something less and so they don't talk nearly as much as Stan and Kyle do, but with Kyle and Christophe…they're either going to drift apart forever or get back together again.

Stan and Kyle? They're forever, best friends or something more; I don't think they'll ever be separated.

"I know," is all Stan has to say as he opens the freezer again. Perhaps I was wrong. The raven-haired boy might be attempting to start a second ice age so that we'll all be frozen in time. I would tell him about global warming but I'm afraid he'd simply shatter into pieces with that revelation.

"Craig," Kenny says. And that's all I need to hear to know I'm not welcome. Normally I'd insist to stay and hear the entire he's-my-best-friend-but-I'm-so-in-love-with-him conversation that we've all heard in every romantic comedy movie ever, but the clock on the stove is telling me it's about time I get to Tweek's house anyway, his mom doesn't like it when I'm late to dinner. Then again, she doesn't like it when I spoil dinner either, but I'm taking a few extras of the Best Food Ever with me for the walk to the Tweak house and they definitely aren't healthy for me.

I stay at Tweek's house more often than not these days. His parents could honestly care less; his mom thought we started dating in, like, tenth grade anyway. Although his dad literally talked to _me _about sex and whatever the fuck else you can think of that's really uncomfortable to talk about with your boyfriend's dad. God I love those people. They're like a family from one of those 90's sitcoms that had no problem talking about anything with each other, sans laugh track. Maybe I'm the laugh track, because I'm constantly laughing when I'm with them.

When I eat dinner with them no one talks to their food. No one tries to slowly kill themselves with unearthly amounts of salt. And no one – it's actually a rule now that I'm there all the time – flips anyone else off at the dinner table. Ever, or else they're going back to their own house and forced to talk to Tweek on the phone which really isn't the same at all as being with him. It's done wonders for my attitude, quite honestly. Not that I don't get angry when things don't go my way, but it's different now, in a way I can't really explain.

Tweek's mom makes good food, almost as good as the food from the party; four extras of which I manage to eat in the short walk from Stan's house to Tweek's. One thing I like about Tweek's family – out of the million other things I like – is that they tend to eat dinner late. It makes sense when you consider the three of them are constantly drinking coffee and Tweek's dad gets home late from locking up Harbucks and whatnot, so even though I don't reach their house until it's nearly ten in the evening I'm practically right on time.

"Try one," I tell Tweek, pushing one of the amazing food items into his hands as he opens the door for me. I think they might be cookies.

"I'll ruin my dinner, Jesus Christ, Craig!" he shrieks, dropping it on the floor.

God, it's good to be home.

Dinner at Tweek's house is quite like dinner you see in every family-oriented television show. How was your day? I tried a new recipe. Craig, get your elbows off of the – Craig, do you want to go home? I _am _at home, retard. Craig, don't say retard. Sorry. The food is good. The food is actually kind of amazing. You don't think there's a chance we'll get food poisoning do you? No, Tweek, but if it makes you feel any better I'll eat first and if I die you don't have to eat any of it. Oh God, don't – ngh – _joke _about that! Craig, you should really eat something. Alright, I will be working the calories off later tonight anyway. _Craig_!

Which is basically all of them freaking out at me. Yeah, definitely a 90s sitcom. They always assume the worst of me, but never really get mad. Which is really the trait my own family is lacking. I do see my own family, honestly, but they never seem to be home. Tweek's family is much more stable – and when you're saying _that_ you kind of know your own family is fucked up. Still, I can't blame them for being fucked up; it's in our genes as far as I know. God forbid I ever have sex with some chick while I'm drunk and get her pregnant, no, it's my sister's job to continue the line of really messed up individuals.

I sleep in Tweek's room, which isn't as creepy as it sounds, I promise. I'm not supposed to sleep in his room, really, but I do it anyway. A lot of the time we sleep in the living room anyway. It doesn't really matter where, you know, as long as we're together.

I have found that there is a side-affect to having Tweek around all the time: becoming a bit of a gaywad.

I think about things a little differently now. People always say things about how we're young and our lives are only just starting. First things first, I'd like to point out that if that's true, what have I been doing the last eighteen years? I'd kind of like to think my life started when I was born, thanks. Still if life did start right now, I wouldn't have as much to complain about. Really, though, I think life is different for everyone, in the way that not only will people all have different experiences, but also that no one will react to something the same way.

When you cut down a tree there are rings and people say you count those rings to tell how old the tree was – you know, before you basically killed it. The thing is, true, you're going to know about how many years that tree was around. But you're never going to know much else. You might be able to guess just by looking at, but you won't ever know anything. And it sounds stupid, because what does a tree go through? I guess what I mean is, you can look at a person and chances are if you guess their age you won't be off by more than a year or two. Hell, you could even know that person's exact age, down to the day, hour, minute and second, but you will never, ever know what that person has gone through.

You can know things that have happened to that person and what they've done to others, but you can't know everything. You can't look at someone and say 'this is when everything fell apart' or 'this is when a fondness turned into a full-blown addiction.' You can never simply look at someone and decide who they are. As far as I'm concerned there's more to everyone than meets the eye and no matter how long you live, no matter how many years you spend on Earth, there is no possible way to ever have the ability or the right to look at someone know what their life is like.

What you've been through, what you've seen, whoever's life you've touched, and whoever has touched yours – it's the one thing that's completely unique to all of us.

I'll never know exactly what happened with everyone else. There are too many missing moments. I'm not going to know why, exactly, Christophe broke things off with Kyle. I can't say for sure what Stan and Kyle ever did or whether they'll ever do anything else together again. I can't tell you what's going on between Kenny and Butters anymore than I can tell you what I learned in Human Bio last week. Maybe I once knew something, but that's gone. It's not my life, it's not my story and I don't know what's going to happen to any of them.

When you get right down to it you don't know anything about anyone, not even yourself. And there you go, you know – that's it. No big lesson of morality here. I'm pretty content with that, lying in bed with Tweek, listening to his heart beat while he listens to my breathing pattern – not knowing anything about what's really going to happen and still knowing everything in the world. It's just one of those things, like when they thought the world was flat. One day something can be an absolute truth and the next someone can destroy everything you thought was fact. We're just two people, ordinary and unoriginal in every way, what we have right now isn't any more special than what anyone else has.

We aren't one person, we aren't forever, our hearts don't beat in synch, we don't know what the other person is thinking, we fight all the time, we rarely agree on anything, we don't like the same movies, music or television shows, we have different ambitions in life, we have completely opposite views, we aren't always there for each other and we never will be. We leave each other, we find each other, we stay together and we fall apart. There's only one thing that stays constant, one thing that makes it all worth it, one thing that everyone can agree on. We belong together.

And that's no lie.

**A/N**: And it's over. Officially and unequivocally, the most fun I've had writing a multi-chaptered fic so far. Much, much, _much _thanks to everyone who reviewed, even all you anonymous people who I couldn't reply to. Also thank you to everyone who read and didn't review, I appreciate that as well.  
Now, in regards to the end of this story, I don't know how happy all of you will be with how I chose to end things. But, in my defense, this is and always has been Craig and Tweek's story and so the end of this story is theirs, not anyone else's. I have, in my mind, an idea of what happens to everyone else. (i.e. who Kyle chooses, what happens with Kenny and Butters, etc.) but that's my idea, not yours, and because I haven't written explicitly what happened to them in this story I have no right to decide for you what happens to them, so that's all up to your imagination.  
For all you people that (for whatever reason) like my writing and want to see more work from me of this pairing, I have some bits of good news. First off, shameless advertising, I'm co-writing a fic with eksley05 that will be posted on our joint account that is appropriately called superbestfriends. It's going to be pretty cool, I'll be doing a chapter from Craig's point of view and then she'll do one from Tweek's, and it's going to be a pretty interesting plot if I do say so myself, so check that out. Secondly, I'm working on two really long oneshots for this pairing, I can't say when they'll be done, but I'll have them up at some point. :D  
Well, thanks again and, once more, I wouldn't mind a review or two. Let me know what you thought of the story as a whole, especially, if you can. Thanks for reading through this whole thing!  
-tweekers


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